Worth and Choice
by KCS
Summary: - "True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends, but in their worth and choice." - Samuel Johnson. The events preceding and during STUD, told through the private diary of a certain reclusive, somewhat irreverent, private consulting detective.
1. January 1, 1881

_No, I have not been ignoring the poll responses on my profile - at least one of those is a WIP at this very moment, but I've been wanting to do this for quite some time after reading STUD recently for writing prompts so I went ahead and started._

* * *

_From the private diary of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq._

_January 1, 1881_

_12:02 a.m._

Another year has been in existence for nearly three minutes now. Another year, another day.

Another month to scramble for the rent on this hell-hovel Mrs. Dudley calls a boarding-house.

The woman truly is a miserable creature (though with a face like that, one cannot quite blame her) and seems to derive wicked pleasure only from seeing how often she can make others equally miserable.

Given her disposition and judging from the amount of bottle-clinking I can hear through the hole in the floorboards, I suspect it would be beneficial to my health and/or sanity to make myself scarce today…save for the fact that it is a holiday, blast it. The British Museum is not open; nothing is, as a matter of fact.

And brother dearest informed me if I were spotted within two blocks of Pall Mall before the holidays were over he should see me out of London permanently on the first ship bound for South America. No doubt he is placidly asleep in his snug chambers, disregarding the holiday either at home or at office as characteristically as he disregards my life's difficulties or the state of affairs in the East at the moment – as being mere nuisances to be dealt with during waking hours only. People are indeed nuisances (I could not agree with the sentiment more fully), yet I do wish he would bend that rule to exclude me from it at least occasionally.

However, for all his faults, keeping irregular hours is certainly a vice in which he does not indulge. Would that I could say the same for the party of four across the way – I believe I have now heard _Auld Lang Syne_ in at least four differing languages and a Scottish dialect, all of them slurred with a thick tinge of something more crude than champagne.

Between the erstwhile barbershop quartet across the hall and Face-of-Death Dudley below stairs apparently breaking every mug within reach, I doubt I shall be visited by an indulgent Morpheus tonight. This morning. Whatever it is at this ungodly hour on this ridiculously celebratory holiday.

Such are the joys of being self-employed.

Or should the apposite term actually be self-_un_employed? If Lestrade had not blundered into a dead end on that Marcher forgery last week _(Note to self: make notes over Marcher's technique in duplicating capital _T_'s, for that could be a unique method)_ I should be celebrating New Year's with the ragged derelicts inhabiting the shadows under the Tower Bridge.

As it is, I now have another joyous fourteen days to make payment for the requisite amount to the not-so-dear Mrs. Dudley or find lodgings elsewhere.

As if there even _were_ a seedier and cheaper hole in the metropolis than this rat-trap.

Mycroft made it quite clear that he shall be accepting no more of what he calls 'leeching' and I call 'familial investment opportunities' from my person; _ergo_ I am completely thrown back upon my own devices to procure the rest of my two week's rent or suffer the consequences.

Hence my sitting alone on New Year's with a cracked cup of tepid tea instead of a champagne flute. I believe I shall compose a short monograph upon the effects of various beverages on an alert and highly intelligent mind, together with a few observations on the variations of caffeine levels in relation to trained senses…

I really must speak to the old woman about repairing that hole in the roofing – I swear every hour I have to dump more melting snow out of that pan than falls upon the entire city block. The cold and wet I can stand, for mental detachment is always capable of besting any physical discomfort; but for the fact that clients tend to be skeptical of a man's abilities to stop an attempted murder when he cannot stop a hole in his own roof.

Not that I have to worry about the clientele issue at the moment, or that it looks likely I should at any point in the near future. _Ars artis gratia_ is all well and good, and sounds idealistically alluring when starting a career such as mine – but all too soon the art of the business is drowned in the slough of necessity.

Why I am here scribbling these slightly disjointed thoughts, besides the obvious fact that sleeping is out of the question with the rowdies across the hall, escapes me at the moment; but this problem of rent is a knotty one indeed, and logic dictates that I should prepare myself for the inevitable.

It appears that the last shillings in my pocket will be going toward as many newspapers as I can purchase with the change, in search of 'To-Let' advertisements. Pity one cannot purchase merely the sections of a paper one wants; what I would not give to be able to choose only the agony column, criminal news, and the advertisements, and let the rest of that prattling clap-trap make some other poor fool happy instead of cluttering up my optic senses with useless information.

Though I doubt that any boarding-house in this city could be affordable on my unpredictable means, it nevertheless is my last resort. And if I am to continue –

_Humanity_. What poor pathetic creatures we are, to be so overtaken by an inanimate substance such as alcohol. I was just rudely interrupted by a banging upon my door. As the flimsy wood (more like varnished cardboard) will literally crash down onto the room's moulding carpeting if pushed hard enough (Mrs. Dudley's elephantine physique accidentally brushed up against the thing last week and nearly flattened me underneath it), I rushed to prevent another such happening.

Outside I found Mr. Tader's Scottish guest, completely off his head but very serious, asking if I were entertaining anyone during the holidays and if not, might he borrow my couch upon which to sleep the rest of the night since Tader threw him out a minute ago 'without a bottle or a word o' warnin''.

As I neither have a couch, nor harbour a desire to share rooms with a besotted Scot, I declined the offer and steered him in the direction of the stairs, knowing that if he were not awake enough to find a cab at the moment he certainly either would be after falling down them, or would not be in a position to care whether he could or not.

That is one reason I have never been tempted overmuch by alcohol – to be reduced to such a pathetically doltish state holds no attraction for me whatsoever; wrecking a brilliant mind as mine in such a manner would be the Unpardonable Sin.

Granted, I have other vices of my own with which to deal, but this is certainly not the time or place to do so. Mrs. Dudley enjoys peeping into my things.

I am seriously considering lacing the pages of my books with dendranthema oil to serve the crone a lesson. I wonder if she would be able to throw me out with hands swollen to twice their normal size? Actually that is a very frightening mental picture to be conjuring up before going to bed…

I appear to have been rambling pointlessly for the better part of a quarter-hour. Apparently my Scottish friend's absence sucked most of the vitality from the party across the way, and I've no doubt that the Dudley woman is well on her way to (I believe the medical term is) _veisalgia _by now. Perhaps now I might get a few hours of semi-silence before the boy comes with the milk.

I have made one New Year's resolution: that I will not spend another holiday in this den.

Though how I am going to accomplish getting out of the place will probably entail help from either Providence or a wiser man than I. I am not certain which entity I think the possibility of is more dubious...


	2. January 2, 1881

_January 2, 1881_

_8:31 p.m._

The British Museum's library had the infernal gall to inform me today that I owe over nine shillings sixpence in fines for keeping that series of Otto Funke articles on the subject of hemoglobin out beyond the return date. As if anyone else in the city is interested in reading them – why the devil do they have a return deadline at all on obscure periodicals?

They did not appreciate my replying that the breakthrough I am in the midst of discovering regarding a successor to the guaiacum blood test is of far greater import than any ridiculous technicality in two-week due dates.

For the sake of a nosy fishwife who perhaps will be reading this at some point – yes, I mean _you_, Mrs. Dudley – I shan't write here exactly how I worded my reply to the last notice as it could offend female sensibilities.

Suffice it to say, I am keeping the articles until my research and experiment is complete; I doubt they shall send a clerk to break into this hovel and retrieve them, and even if so, in all probability the smell would send him tearing back to the Museum to report said articles gone forever.

Annoyingly enough, however, as I owe on those articles they refuse to permit me to take anything else from the archives. This is inordinately frustrating, as I have not yet finished my monograph upon the distinction of different types of soil in London and the surrounding area and need to check myself at a few obscure locations before attempting to get the thing into a passable publishing form.

One thing I have discovered (unfortunately) the hard way, is that writing certainly does not pay for a living – at least, not technical writing in any case. The effort poured into my humble treatise regarding cigar and tobacco ash was most definitely not worth the paltry sum I have received so far from its sales. If it is selling at all, which I doubt, as no one in the entire metropolis, police force or otherwise, appears to perceive its significance in changing the hitherto haphazard art of detection.

Ridiculous how those whom society regards as brilliant thinkers refuse to recognise genius even when it slaps them across the face with a pamphlet. I know, I can _feel_ it in me, that I can, I _will_ become famous someday – and then the world that laughed at a dramatic theorist will be using the name Sherlock Holmes as a household word. I swear it here, they will. One day, England will ring with my name as having metamorphosed the chrysalis of detection into the butterfly of science and analysis.

Or is that just another grand dream, like the one I have now pursued unsuccessfully for two years, trying to gain a foothold in the quicksand of the London populace as a – the only – private consulting detective?

I know I have it in me to be better, brighter, quicker, than any of those fools at the Yard. Even the best of them I have not yet been able to convince of the extreme importance that may be attached to a heel-print in wet soil, or the value of imagination along with the basic calculations regarding a crime scene. Details, minutiae, are all but invisible to the average detective, but I – I _know_ I am above that.

Why can no one else see that I have brought detection nearer a science than an art than it ever has been brought? Does every person in this city not realise how unique my profession is, and how my methods will, if given the chance, alter the history of detection? I know for a fact that I can effect a radical change in the history of crime if but given the proper chance.

Why then am I sitting in this dank hell-hole, scribbling miserably in a journal by a crooked candle's light? Obviously I am yet missing something, some elusive piece of this too-complicated drama I call my life…what is it?

No, this room and the conspicuous absence of coin in my pocket is just another proof that dreams get one nowhere in life; they are a mere childish waste of time and energy and have no place in a logically ordered mind.

Then, to put away childish things, the unsympathetic reality grows harsher every day. Today's papers yielded nothing by way of possible advertisements – to my surprise I found that indeed, there are lower holes than this for a man to hide in London. And none of them would in any way enhance my reputation with either my clients or the Yard, both of which I rely on for my livelihood at the moment.

No, there is no possible way I can sink further down in the housing world without losing even more business. Survival dictates a different course of action. But what, then?

I did mention the difficulty to one of the more annoying fellows up in the laboratory at St. Bart's this morning, more to stop his incessant, cheerful chattering and his questions about what I was doing _this_ time, what was I working with _now_, etc., etc., than any real desire for his advice, which arrived shortly in surfeit. If there is one thing I hate more than Mrs. Dudley prying into my personal belongings, it is being watched over my shoulder amid an endless string of juvenile questions that could be easier (and less wasteful of my time) answered by simple observation of fact.

Curiosity is all well and good, and a decent trait in a fellow – but when not tempered with discretion and the ability to shut one's mouth it becomes excruciatingly annoying.

Why I draw so much attention in that place is beyond me; I am an irregular student, and I have done my level best to do my important work at hours when no one else would be around for the sole purpose of avoiding having unnecessary conversations with people in whom I have no interest save as a laboratory rat to hone my deductive processes by deciphering their lives from their cuffs and trouser-knees (among other details).

But I digress. This fellow, one Henry Stamford by name – yes, Mrs. Dudley, the same one who brought me home the other night in that storm (a kindness which I shall _never_ make the mistake of accepting again, as my auditory receptors were exhausted from the strain of listening to his chirping before the ride was half-over) – suggested finding a decent place and then sharing it with one of the medical students at Bart's who might be in a parallel predicament.

The flaws in that suggestion? Let me count the ways.

For one, a medical student is bound to have all sorts of apparatus and other unappetizing supplies lying about at all hours, in addition to the fact that we would no doubt possess some of the same items; the mixing up of possessions would grow to be extremely annoying, and most likely unsanitary.

I have no desire to find another man's scalpel in my collection of Far Eastern poisoned darts, or vice-versa. Not to mention I have a habit of not labeling my things (I know them by sight and memory, so why should I bother?); I have much more important matters vying for my attention than to wonder every morning if the breakfast tea is made from tea leaves or my misplaced or mislabeled belladonna.

For another, our schedules would be far too similar. I cannot stand having another person about at my every waking moment, chatting aimlessly about the weather, politics, and any other inane piece of conversation that may tickle his fancy but has no place in my organized mind. I should either go mad or homicidal before a week were out.

Neither of which would bode well for my career.

Not to mention that any and all of those infernal students are immature, of barely average intelligence, and far too sociable to be either healthy or congenial room-mates. That very blithe, happy-go-lucky air of enjoying the social aspect of being amongst colleagues seems for some reason to turn every unsuspecting passer-by into an instant friend to those fellows, an attitude with which I am thoroughly disgusted.

There is not a chance in the world – I need to be able to receive clients without having to bundle a party of reveling after-hours medicos out of the apartment.

Having effectively dashed that theory to pieces, what in blazes _am_ I going to do?

I suppose if I landed myself in the hospital, that would solve the housing problem; even the old crone downstairs would not be so cruel – or would she? – to deposit me on the front stoop _sans_ my latchkey if I had been recently ill or injured.

The most prominent hole in that theory being that the possibility is not likely, given the dearth of cases of late into which to poke my nose and thereby run a risk of it getting broken.

As well as the fact that the monetary situation would only be exponentially multiplied by hospital bills.

Obviously as I am no longer thinking rationally about the matter, there is no more to be done with it for now. I shall then return to my studies of Funke's articles, in hopes that a scientific breakthrough might lift my spirits before I resort to artificial means (for I unfortunately have not the money to sensibly encourage that habit either at the moment).


	3. January 3 & 4, 1881

_January 3, 1881_

_1:15 p.m._

I am going to murder one Henry Stamford. Slowly and painfully, and in such a way that the world will take due notice not to push a man over the brink. If I cannot make a name for myself as a private consulting detective, then I shall go down in the annals of crime for the perfect murder.

I feel compelled to confess it now, however, in order to give Lestrade a bit of a head-start in solving the murder (heaven knows he will need it) – I do owe the man that much. A Happy New Year's to you, Inspector.

* * *

_January 4, 1881_

_9:47 p.m._

Since I am obviously penning these lines, the most evident deduction would be that I have not yet been driven quite to the point of justifiable homicide, though yesterday afternoon I very nearly came too close for that infernal young man's safety.

Why can I not learn to simply refrain from talking to people as a general rule? No good ever comes of my attempting to make new acquaintances or even keep up with old ones, no matter how arduously I attempt to be civil.

Mycroft always said I was far too hermit-like as an adolescent, and even worse as an adult (actually, I have a more intelligent conversation with myself than I do with anyone else I have met so far, and I am a far less annoying companion, but that is beside the point), and so I have made an effort to at least appear to converse now and again with the odd student around St. Bart's, just to avoid being labeled as _strange_ or something equally or more derogatory.

And in return for this monumental effort upon my part to pretend sociability, I seem to attract all the strange and (for lack of a more intelligent word) _bizarre_ students' attentions, rather than any halfway intelligent conversationalists.

Last afternoon is living proof that forced congeniality is just a socially acceptable form of lying and carries the same basic set of consequences for the sin. Enforced conversation with a colossal idiot is more than comparable to eternal damnation in the pits of Hades, surely.

As I have previously stated somewhere in this uninspiring narrative, I mentioned my housing problems to Stamford in passing, merely as a conversation-starter (or rather a conversation-_ender_, as I was desperately trying to escape his enthusiastic verbal talons). In return for my efforts, he has apparently spread the word round all the chemistry and anatomy classes that I desperately am wanting a room-mate – when I want nothing of the kind!

I was accosted at least a dozen times today by students in something of the same position as I, wanting to know if I would like to move in with them and help with the rent, etc., etc. As if I could even stand to be in their companies for more than thirty seconds without turning to violence!

His only response when I stormed into the dissecting-room in a direct confrontation was "I was only trying to help, Holmes."

_Help_. As if throwing me to the proverbial wolves in the persons of students noteworthy only for their distinct lack of maturity and common-sense, most of which are at least four years my junior physically and thrice that many mentally, can remotely be construed as helpful.

As if that onslaught of torture were not enough, I returned home this afternoon to find that I had only just missed a potential client due to having to fend off yet three more well-meaning offers from various parties more interested in my financial difficulties than in their own studies.

Mrs. Dudley informed me that a well-dressed man had been knocking upon my door and even waited outside for a quarter of an hour. As at the moment I am not in debt, he could not be a creditor; and as far as I know no one has filed charges against me for any of my recent activities, thus a lawyer is also (hopefully) out of the question – it had to have been a client. _Blast. _I dearly needed that money and the reputation such a client would bring. I do hope he returns…dare I charge him his fee up front rather than upon case conclusion?

I asked the Dudley woman if she had taken the fellow's card, to which she replied that she was 'a landlady, not a bleedin' butler' and tromped off, each step nearly snapping the stair-boards in half. In addition to landlady-not-butler, she was also the closest relative to a female elephant that I had seen outside of the Zoological Gardens, but I refrained from pointing that out, not seeing the wisdom of such antagonism at the time. Frailty, thy name certainly is not Beatrice Dudley.

I can only hope and pray to whatever deity sees fit to extricate me from my predicament that my next landlord or lady has at least a grain more of common sense, not to mention decency.

And if their culinary talents would encompass an edible that is even slightly recognizable, that would be a definite attraction as well. Dinner tonight (a highly unidentifiable meat pie) tasted suspiciously of last week's beef-and-carrot stew, and I detected this morning's rash of sugared bacon in the mixture as well, unless my senses fail me.

A brief pause whilst I locate my bicarbonate of soda…

But this venting of frustrations accomplishes no more for me than taking up paper and wasting ink, which I have not the funds to replace at the moment; nor does it do anything to help solve the problem of finding the capital to continue this miserable existence.

I did attempt to calmly chat with the Dudley woman this morning, to feel her out regarding (yet) another extension of the rent deadline, and the crone's only sympathetic comment was for me to "Hawk that bloody violin, no 'un wants t' listen to it anyway!"

I shall die first.

Actually, that could be a definite possibility, as living on the streets is not recommended as being beneficial to one's state of health.

Just because the old hag is too tone-deaf and uncultured to appreciate the finer points of Bach and Mozart does not excuse her calling my playing 'caterwauling', besides. Even in my contemplative moods, any improvisation I could emit would be a sight more pleasurable to the ears than her voice (which is more reminiscent of rusty nails on a wet blackboard than a human vocalization).

On a slightly more enjoyable note, my blood test is coming along nicely, despite my being banned from the laboratory this morning after accidentally leaving a Bunsen burner on underneath a phial of chlorine. If that idiot Stamford hadn't been blathering all the while to me about the latest penny dreadful he bought the night before, I should never have overlooked such an obvious hazard – but even my immense concentration of attention cannot stand under such a barrage of nonsensical rubbish.

Naturally, the powers that be could not have cared a whit less _what_ the very good reason was for a hole being burnt in the tabletop varnish. Tolerance does not appear to be a very plentiful virtue in most of my acquaintances, unfortunately.

As I am now thoroughly out-of-sorts and in addition bored beyond endurance, I believe I shall spend the night rambling about London in a disguise of some sort…perhaps I could don the rag-outfit and beg enough money to appease the raging landlady? Though I should hate to stoop so low; a man, even one as uncaring of others' opinions as I, has his pride.

At any rate, if I cannot work for wages, then I at least can work for my own personal benefit; and judging from the narrow escape of last time, my drunken Irish sailor's act could do with a bit of polishing. I should prefer _not_ to be knifed in an alley the next time, as it was deucedly awkward to use my arm for a week afterwards. So wise so young, they say, do ne'er live long, but I should much fancy having my intelligence _and_ living to see fame and relative fortune, thank you very much.

I believe I shall try Soho tonight, then. If nothing else, an opportunity for participating in a pub brawl is more appealing than spending another evening in this rat's nest, scribbling absently in this diary like a miserable lad on his first night after being sent to boarding-school.


	4. January 5, 1881

_January 5, 1881_

_7:47 p.m._

This day was a capital waste of time, effort, and blood. _My_ blood, unfortunately.

* * *

_11:25 p.m._

Due in part to the brawl going on in Tader's rooms across the way (which actually is an improvement upon the harmonica serenade of last night) and in a larger part to this infernal headache (and rib-ache, and arm-ache, and…), Sleep appears to have taken itself off to a remote holiday location without so much as throwing me a proverbial bone of comfort.

Tader has the right idea, however – in the words of Horace, _nunc est bibendum._ Granted, slightly out of context, but "Now is the time to drink" perfectly depicts my mental state at the moment at least. This day was really not worth getting up for this morning.

Why is it that the injuries that are the most painful are always completely invisible to the world, so as to not even garner any sympathy for their visible discomfort? Not that I know of anyone who would even notice if I fell off the London Bridge until I turned up in the police morgue a few days later (if then), but still…

I suppose I must be grateful for the fee I received for clearing the little matter up, though really I should have spent a bit of it in obtaining medical help in attending to these bruises…now my infernal impatience and curt rejection of all things sociable is coming back to kick me, hard, in that I have no real acquaintance, medico or otherwise, that I could turn to for a rapid (and preferably _free_) consultation.

As I am reading back over this, it strikes me as rather pathetic and disjointed blather. The facts, then.

The client whom Mrs. Dudley conveniently forgot to tell to return did of his own accord this morning around half-past ten. As I had been banned from the laboratory at Bart's all day, and the dissecting-room and anatomy chart room were both occupied by gaggling nurses-in-training, and as the archives curator at the British Museum was eyeing me and an Egyptian dagger in the same evilly wistful gaze last I hung round there all day, I decided my morning would be better spent indoors, waiting in hope for the possible client.

The flaw to this apparently sterling logic being that the Dudley woman knew I was in all day and not out working, and made a point to remind me every time she passed the door that I should be 'getting a _real_ job, or I'd be out on my ear in no time flat', etc. I do wish she would find a belfry to sit in or go and scare children on All Hallow's Eve as a full-time occupation, rather than putting me off my food.

I have digressed again. Back to the subject at hand, I was indeed rewarded for my stoic suffering and my patience by the return of my client. A sordid, simplistic little business involving tracking down an unfaithful wife. Not even a half-pipe problem…or so I thought.

Said client conveniently neglected to tell me, however, that his wife's new gentleman was an amateur heavyweight boxer. I believe I can hold my own in any lightweight category, but even my prowess and footwork cannot stand against 280 pounds of solid brick (which I would be willing to swear at least his head was indeed made of).

Hence the bruised ribs, arm, and heaven only knows what else; I am rather afraid to check. And because I came off second best and the man got away with the wife, my (_censored)_ of a client decided my fee was too high and spent a painful hour haggling with me over the fact. He did not appreciate my pointing out that all I had been engaged to do was _find_ the woman, not bring her back; nor did he take kindly to my ending frustration when I said that if he pinched every farthing as hard as he was grasping my fee, I did not blame his wife in the least for seeking out another avenue of affection.

In consequence, I received barely enough to cover a stiff brandy and half of my month's rent to the daemon downstairs; not even enough left to purchase liniment for my battle scars. The bruises to my pride will take something a bit stronger, I fancy.

One interesting thing did happen today, a slightly entertaining interlude, to break up the trend of mishaps. I was crossing Wellbeck Street (this was before meeting up with Mr. Brick-Jaw) when someone small and agile jostled me in the crowd before darting behind an omnibus. Naturally, as it is impossible to walk anywhere in the city without rubbing shoulders with someone (more's the pity – I wish so that I could get a private vehicle to negate that unpleasantness of physical contact with any fellow man), I thought no more about the matter.

That is, until I returned here for luncheon, or whatever Mrs. Dudley was forcing her tenants to devour without complaint, and I then realised my wallet was missing. I soundly deserved to have my pocket picked, allowing it to happen in broad daylight by so obvious a method as that, but the knowledge that I had only myself to blame did not soothe my mind (or my landlady, who promptly screeched once more about the rent not being paid) in the least.

The amusing (and instructive) side of this affair was that before I had left the flat once more I received a visitor in the person of my little street urchin Wiggins, who after giving the state of my room yet another askance look returned the wallet to me, saying one of his boys had been working his territory and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least that was the impression I received of what he said, as his Cockney is all but unintelligible.

I did not care what he said or how rude his comments regarding my lodgings were, so long as he had gotten my purse back from that bunch – had he not stepped in I no doubt would never have seen it again.

_Midnight_. How I hate that infernal hall clock; half the time it forgets to strike the hour at all; and the other, sounds off at completely random times (usually just after I have dropped off to sleep or am endeavouring to concentrate on a heady problem); my not-very-venerable landlady refuses to have the possessed timepiece repaired until we all pay up our rents on time for at least three months in a row.

No doubt when I leave this hovel the others will be thoroughly glad that they now have a chance to work their way out of her blackmail without my ruining it for all of them.

Speaking of which, I still have found nothing yet by way of lodgings, though I did see three _To Let_ advertisements in the papers this morning that will bear looking into tomorrow – though the one is a double-bedroom suite, it is most definitely in the best location of the three...Marylebone Road, I think it was, or perhaps Baker Street…somewhere in that general vicinity. The other two were _not_ in the best of neighborhoods, but at least were an improvement upon this hell-hole, and they were both single rooms. The one was not far from Montague, and the other on the west side of town closer to the dockyards on a byway I completely did not recognize as even being upon the map…probably not the best of neighbourhoods, but I must check every possibility.

The paramount issue is that no one desires to take in a single, self-employed fellow who cannot guarantee that his callers will be of middle-class or higher…and I did not even mention to the boarding-houses I have investigated so far that I play an instrument, keep irregular hours, and occasionally indulge in chemical experiments.

Surely _somewhere_ in the metropolis is a house and owner that this would not seem outrageous to? Am I truly so strange, that what appears to be a perfectly normal lifestyle to me is regarded as mad by others?

Out-of-character philosophy and a brandy on a bruised and empty stomach are not a good combination. I must be up an about in just a few hours, to get an early start if I am to see all three of those sets of rooms before going to the laboratory to study; perhaps I should attempt sleep once more. The operative word there being _attempt_…


	5. January 6, 1881

_Note: I am using Pompey's date-line from_ On Afghanistan's Plains _for this story, as I believe it to be the most accurate that I've seen to date. Soooo, if you're wondering exactly when Watson's going to make his first appearance, you'll just have to go read that excellent story. _

* * *

_January 6, 1881_

_10:05 p.m._

What is that elusive element about my life that is a magnet for all things _outré_ and bizarre? Were I a superstitious, womanish fool I should suspect something of a jinx or curse, in all seriousness. As I am instead a logician, I can only assume that the problem lies with myself, as I am the only constant in each of these variables of situations. But how and why _me_, that is the question.

And for a logician, I have a remarkably annoying habit of jumping into a tale without laying the groundwork, a quality I abhor in written form and which I should now rectify in this somewhat dense memoir.

I did indeed go round to those three advertisements this morning, beginning with the closest one. To my chagrin, and deep embarrassment, the establishment's other occupants consisted solely of young women, music-teachers and typists, and each under the age of five-and-twenty. Obviously a female placed the advertisement in the _Standard_, as no half-intelligent being would have omitted such an obvious determent to prospective lodgers in such an advertisement.

To make matters worse, the landlady of the house merely laughed at my embarrassment and intimated in a most inappropriate fashion that I might find my stay there…_rewarding_, I believe was the word she used. I am not a man who blushes easily, but I daresay this morning more than made up for my customary lack of facial colouring for the last ten years or so. I am still shuddering.

The second establishment, the one on the West Side, was no less squalid but slightly less embarrassing. A squat, filthy rat-hole, situated picturesquely between two broken-down warehouses and a tobacco-shop, and smelling dreadfully of fish and heaven only knows what else. Obviously out of the question, as no one save a sailor or dock-hand would ever dream of coming near the place. Stepping in a small accruement of fish heads upon the pavement while exiting only strengthened this conclusion to my mind.

I had only just enough time to drop by the rooms in Baker Street (it was Baker Street, not Marylebone Road) before heading on to Scotland Yard (I was supposed to observe the police-surgeon autopsying a drowning victim this morning at ten). The landlady…blast, I cannot even remember the woman's name at the moment… was pleasant enough, younger than I should have thought for a woman recently widowed, and had no objection to my poking about the apartment so long as I did not disturb anything.

Indeed, the place looked most satisfactory, the sitting room full of light and the bedrooms a decent size for the amount of space available (although moving from a soapbox as I was now inhabiting, even a closet would have seemed like a palace).

I asked the price, hoping it to be within my meager (and irregular) means, and nearly choked on my humbug when she calmly stated the terms in a tone that brooked no haggling. When I attempted to negotiate her down, she sent me a look that could have frozen steam – the lady should give lessons to Mrs. Dudley, in all seriousness – and told me bluntly that she would get what the rooms were worth, whether I wanted them or she had to wait for another tenant.

I am not quite sure she liked the look of me.

So it was in a thoroughly bad temper that I hovered around Dr. Peters's table in the morgue, absently watching the procedure of autopsy and my mind most definitely not on the matter at hand (which was as well, as I had not yet eaten and the man's manner was highly unsanitary to say the least).

And I still have yet to come to a conclusion about the matter – obviously the Baker Street apartment is out of the question, unless…unless I can find someone willing to go halves whom I might be able to stand for long enough to get my practice off the ground and a steady income established. A new place would help that end, certainly; but what a price to pay in the meanwhile!

In addition to this, the fact remains that I would not want the fellow to stick around once I am able to take care of the rent myself – and most people do not take kindly to being asked to leave by a flat-mate, regardless of how unfriendly said flat-mate is. How would I be able to get rid of the chap if I did end up sharing the apartment with him?

What am I saying? It would most likely be the other way round; many faults have I, but self-deception is not one of them. I know my weaknesses. No one I am well acquainted with would be willing to room with me for even a night, much less months; I have too many odd habits to be a congenial constant companion.

Back to the drawing-board it is, then; or rather, back to the newspapers and Mrs. Dudley's dubious cooking.

I did escape the woman's latest masterpiece this noon, however, for which I am devoutly grateful and because of which I forgive Stamford all the sins he has committed against my name of late. The good fellow was running to a nearby café for coffee and a sandwich this luncheon and invited me to accompany him between experiments.

I had no desire whatsoever for his company or his converse, but his offer to foot the bill spoke louder than my misanthropy, and besides the Dudley woman had promised cabbage and whatever-vegetable-was-reduced-in-price-due-to-wilting-at-the-greengrocer's-this-week soup for luncheon. Even Stamford's chattering was a preferable method of death, though the grand theme of his conversation was 'helping' me again in finding a suitable roommate.

For Mrs. Dudley's sole entertainment (yes, I _know_ you shall be reading this in hopes of finding out how soon I will be quitting your paradise, woman) I shall attempt to reproduce the dialogue here, if only to cleanse my mind of the horror of it.

"What about Stewart Davies, you remember him? In my anatomy class, Holmes? I hear that he's quiet enough for your taste," said he between bites.

"He also possesses all the intelligence of that roast beef you're spraying onto my water glass."

"Sorry. Jacobson, then? You already know him from the laboratory, and he's smart as a whip."

"And is rivaled in his incessant chatter only by my present company. He is also seeing a young lady regularly."

"You really are a pain sometimes, Holmes, you know that? Rodger Wilkers, then?"

"I've no idea who that is."

"Friend of mine – quiet, fairly intelligent, stays away from the ladies, quite good-natured…oh, never mind."

"What?"

"He hates violin playing. And violence. And from the looks of you, at least the latter would happen on a more regular basis than he would like."

"I should much prefer to have _no one_, much as you evidently find that hard to believe, Stamford."

"Ah, but your pocketbook prefers otherwise, doesn't it? You are going to have to find someone, you know. And good luck with _that_."

"Do I detect sarcasm, Stamford?"

"You're the logician, not I. In all seriousness, Holmes – you're going to have to _give_ a bit if you're to find someone you can tolerate. Life's full of compromise, and you're just going to have to."

I believe it was at that point in the meal that I lost my appetite.

Surely there is someone in the metropolis I could stand for long enough to get my practice off the ground? Just six months, no more, and then we could go our separate ways?

But enough of my housing problems, as the more I think about it the more sickening the idea is that eventually I probably shall have to take up digs with one of those infernal busybodies. The thought is physically nauseating.

On a more positive note, I believe my blood test is progressing rather nicely – with any luck, and if the laboratory remains distraction-less tomorrow, I should have a breakthrough by mid-afternoon I believe.

Granted, once I have found the re-agent, the fact will remain that I must convince everyone else in the scientific realm that the test will revolutionize medico-legal science. And from the luck I have had so far with that particular goal, the world may very well never know about the Sherlock Holmes Blood Test.

Still, art for art's sake, and I at least will have the satisfaction of knowing that I am right and the rest of those poor fools are wrong…

_Confound it_. It appears that I am running out of ink. As this ranting has served no purpose save to make me slightly less homicidal toward the world in general, I see no reason in continuing to waste paper and pen in a further narrative.


	6. January 7, 1881

_A/N: Upon a final proofing, this sounded vaguely reminiscent of the BBC Radio version of the meeting to me; not verbatim, but if you hear a hint of it that's where it came from. (shrug)_

* * *

_January 7, 1881_

_7:30 p.m._

I am still stunned by an unusual and extraordinary stroke of luck that descended upon me this afternoon, and by the hand of _Stamford_ of all people. Perhaps I should rethink my constant irritation with the man, if what he has brought about indeed comes to fruition.

I had been immersed in the laboratory at the hospital all the morning, attempting to concentrate solely on the hemoglobin and its processes and nothing else. Half-way through the experiment I became vaguely aware of Stamford and a crony of his passing through, and the former asking me if I'd found anyone yet to go halves with me on the Baker Street suite. I assume I replied in the negative – I really cannot remember, for I was attempting to tune all distractions out in order to perfect the test.

Which I did! I had not realised how late it was until I finally discovered the re-agent I had been searching for for so long and jumped to my feet in my exultation…before realising I was completely alone in the laboratory – late afternoon, then.

My enthusiasm was promptly squelched by the fact that there was no one around to commend my accomplishment or congratulate me on my discovery – for what enjoyment is there in achievement if there remains no one to give said achievement the accolades it deserves?

It was therefore with a sudden rush of anticipation that I saw the annoying little fellow himself striding through the great entryway into the laboratory. Even half-witted, chattering admiration is better to a theatrical soul than none at all, and so I confess I babbled for several seconds about the importance of my discovery before I realised the man was not alone.

Stamford characteristically nodded once to acknowledge the monumental discovery (he never did appreciate the finer points of my profession) before ignoring the scientific triumph in favour of the formality of introduction.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," was his stunning delivery.

"How are you?" I replied informally (personally I do think the stolid, stiff formalities of our society ought to be abolished in any form – 'twould certainly make life easier on all us wretches). But not to be outdone in courtesy by Stamford, I extended my hand to his companion, only briefly wondering who the man was other than a recent Afghan veteran, probably army surgeon, with a bad shoulder and worse leg.

Honestly, Mycroft was really good for nothing in his professional capacity if he could not discover a way to end such atrocities. Granted, I knew full well that what could be done was being done, but necessity did not negate horror when it came to the wars in the East, unfortunately.

The grip that fell into mine was surprisingly strong for one in such obviously frail health, and the murmured courtesy was refined and educated.

I never have been able to resist a touch of the dramatic, especially on a new and completely unsuspecting victim. So it was with great mischief, I freely confess it, that I quite startled the Doctor by pointing out that he had been in Afghanistan.

The undisguised astonishment I saw flashing through those sharp eyes was ample reward for Stamford intruding a third party on a critical scientific moment, and I did not bother to repress a snigger of satisfaction at the newcomer's expense.

Regardless, a medical man no doubt would be much more apt to appreciate the test's significance than the perpetual student who had accompanied him for the sole apparent purpose of standing by grinning like a loon, and so I lost no time in commandeering the startled veteran's person and explaining my discovery in laymen's terminology.

I watched with appreciation as he carefully, if a bit slowly, followed my procedure, before looking back at me in a sort of quizzical wariness.

"It is interesting chemically, no doubt," said he, "but practically…"

I grinned at the opening he had unwittingly left for me to demonstrate, and proceeded to with innate satisfaction. Stamford yawned widely and sighed with obvious boredom when I had done, but the newcomer nodded with interest (feigned or genuine, I was not quite certain – but somehow I get the impression that the man is so honest he could be dangerous, so I suspect genuine) before handing me a piece of sticking-plaster, muttering about the risk of infection to the finger I had impaled for experimental purposes.

I agreed, blithely mentioning that I dealt with poisons a good deal and earning another raised eyebrow from the Doctor, and then I prattled on rather embarrassingly in my excitement about the ramifications of this test in the annals of crime and what it would mean once it was recognized by the world.

Finally I stopped to draw breath and gauge reactions, which were dubious at best (some people simply will _never_ recognize genius despite its close proximity to them); but at least some of my excitement had found an outlet. Before I could question Stamford about his new friend, the fellow plopped himself down on a nearby stool and surreptitiously shoved another in the Doctor's direction.

I noticed the hesitant, stiff way in which he sat, the tightening of the jaw close to his ears, before my attention shot back to Stamford and his mentioning that they were visiting me on business, and that the fellow he had brought to see me was in search of someone to lodge with.

I glared at Stamford in a look that said _if this is another of your precious attempts at helping, I shall use __**your**__ blood for my next test_. The fellow only grinned mischievously and nodded toward the veteran, who was now glancing up at me with engaging interest.

I took a deep breath, hoping Stamford had not told the fellow much about me (for both our sakes), and met the quizzical gaze.

Actually, the idea was not all bad – surely rooming with a man straight back from the war would indicate that he had few friends (and thereby fewer intruders), poor health (so he would prefer quiet), and that he had absolutely no idea what he was getting into with me (unless Stamford had blown the entire affair by telling him). It was definitely worth a try, at any rate – and as my overly-friendly companion had said at luncheon yesterday, a beggar such as I could not necessarily be a chooser.

I donned an air of cheerfulness and mentioned the Baker Street suite, moving straight from that into a list of my worst shortcomings. I may be (at least Mycroft insists I am) self-centred and nearly heartless to a fault, but even I should not wish a war veteran to not know at least a few of my worst vices before he throws his lot in with me. Besides, the only thing worse than not having a fellow-lodger would be to only have one for a month before he decided he could no longer stand me and depart, leaving me in the hole for the next month's rent.

"You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I trust?" I asked hopefully.

I received an easy shrug of the right (uninjured) shoulder. "I always smoke ship's m'self," he replied, quirking an eyebrow impertinently as if for my approval.

"That's good enough," I found my tone unintentionally taking on a slightly teasing note in response. "I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

"By no means." Well, that was excellent so far, but I still felt compelled to elaborate in case the unsuspecting fellow wanted to escape while he could.

"Let me see, what are my other shortcomings…" I began but was interrupted by a low, rich laugh.

"Really…" the soldier protested, but I held up a restraining hand and he subsided with a patient smile.

"No, no, Doctor. Let me see…I get in the dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You mustn't think I'm sulky when I do that," I said seriously.

A flash of amusement in his eyes faded to a more serious look, and he nodded solemnly.

"Just let me alone, and I'll soon be all right," I finished gaily, much more light of heart now that I had given the chap fair warning – now anything he got himself into with me was completely his fault and not my own. In a fit of sudden mischief, I sat my person down with a thunk on the edge of the table and continued with "What have you to confess now? It is just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together."

I received another laugh for my (surprisingly easy) efforts in conversation and a small grin. "I keep a bull-pup," he began with another cocked eyebrow.

The idea of the calm, placid veteran sitting in front of me having a fiery temper was thoroughly incongruous; but as I had observed, the man was too deucedly honest to lie about an important characteristic such as temper. I took due note of both facts.

"And I object to rows, because my nerves are shaken," he continued, with a touch of embarrassment colouring his tanned face at the admittance.

A deeply-rooted pride was not a characteristic he had mentioned thus far, but I took note of it still.

"I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy."

I rather believed the Doctor deserved to be so, if what I had heard with the rest of the world about the Afghan campaigns were true, not to mention the fact that the chap was obviously still in frail health. Besides, the lazier the man was, the less time we would actually have to interact together. Good, very good.

A small smirk turned one corner of his modest mustache up in my direction as he finished with "I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present."

No matter – by the time he was well again in six months or so, he would no longer be full-pensioning and as such would then be forced to move out of the flat due to finances, leaving me to my solitude once more. This was too perfect to be reality, surely!

An afterthought suddenly occurred to me, and I asked somewhat anxiously if the veteran included violin-playing in his categorization of _rows_, to which he replied that he enjoyed a well-played one but a badly played one…

_Note to self: Give the man a few hours to settle in before attempting any improvisations in minor keys._

After a few more pleasantries (or _un_-pleasantries, for I was more than ready to be ended with the discomfort of chatting and get back to my work), the soldier slowly got to his feet, steadying himself unobtrusively with his right hand clutching the table-edge, and then left with Stamford.

The latter threw me an impertinent wink over his shoulder as he exited, and I sent my most formidable glower in his direction, warning him not to do anything that would curse this stroke of luck and make the Doctor drop the offer of sharing rooms.

We are to meet tomorrow at noon there at the laboratory, and from thence to go look at the apartment. I hope the landlady takes more kindly to him than she did to me.

I do trust he has not brought many possessions, for I cannot for the life of me see how I shall get all my things into the sitting room as it is, much less sharing the space with someone.

I wonder if he would mind taking the upstairs bedroom? No doubt that is a bit callous to make a recovering veteran climb those steps, but it would be dashed inconvenient for me to be out of touch with the sitting room, as that is where I will receive my clients. I shall just have to arrive first and lay claim to it, to avoid any confusion or confrontation.

Besides, he will no doubt be leaving in a few months anyway and I should not prefer to have to move all my things twice.

Now to go and break the joyful news to the Dudley woman, who no doubt will be up all night celebrating my imminent departure from this vale of suffering…


	7. January 8, 1881

_A/N: Again, a nod of thanks to Pompey, who reminded me that January 7th was a Friday in 1881. _:)

* * *

_January 8, 1881_

_No idea; my pocket-watch has disappeared somewhere in the sea of packing-cases._

If all the world's a stage, then I am most happy to be making my exit from this scene to another, with different actors and actresses!

My own gladness is as nothing, however, when compared to my landlady's positive jubilation, which I can hear still taking place below stairs, the celebratory bedlam seeping up through the hole in the floorboards. After what I have endured in this house, even the stern Mrs. Hudson will seem like a kindly mother figure instead of a nightmare-inducing Medusa as I am accustomed to seeing in the mornings.

Only one more night in this den…the very thought fills me with something nearer to elation than I can remember feeling since that childhood incident involving my brother, a spitting toad, two balls of mother's knitting yarn, and an entire bag of flour. This time tomorrow, I shall be penning these ramblings in an entirely new setting.

The entire day went off too much like a charm to feel entirely real – Stamford's soldier friend picked me up in a hansom and we set off at once to Baker Street to inspect the rooms. To my deep surprise, unlike most men of my acquaintance, this fellow apparently had no objection to silence, remaining quiet after venturing into the usual small talk of the weather and local news.

Even more surprising was the fact that the silence did not feel awkward or strained, to me at least, as it normally did when I was in the company of most men of my acquaintance. I did not waste time wondering about the fact or spoiling the unusual pleasure, however. Within fifteen minutes I was knocking on the door of the apartment – 221B, it was – and for the second time this week was admitted by that relatively spirited landlady.

"Changed your mind about the haggling, young man?" was the woman's sole comment, casting a dubious glance over me.

"Not exactly," I hastened to say, stepping to the side in hopes that she would take a better liking to the man behind me. "This is Doctor…" I suddenly realised I did not even know the fellow's first name; Stamford had only introduced him with his last. _Blast_. I did hate being ignorant of important facts!

"Dr. John Watson," my companion supplied helpfully, stiffly removing his hat with his left hand and flashing a smile at the woman. "Late of Her Majesty's Afghan army, Miss…?"

The lady's irritation dissipated into a blush and a smile as she closed the door. "_Mrs._ Hudson, Doctor," she corrected in a no-nonsense tone, though the amusement in her eyes belied the sternness.

I bristled a bit at the approving look my companion received for his ridiculously juvenile stunt – the only thing I had received yet from the woman was a warning glare when I reached to put my hat on the hall table, hastily withdrawing my hand when I was hit with the full force of her formidable ire.

Did I imagine her shooting a pitying glance toward the Doctor as if to say _do you have any idea what you are getting into?_ as we started for the stairs, or am I simply oversensitive on the matter?

I reached the top and flung the sitting-room door open. "As you can see, Doctor, the room is quite large," said I, glancing again with approval at the two large windows and spreading fireplace; both are conspicuously lacking in my current abode and I cannot wait to sit in peace and quiet before a warm fire after the next snowfall.

When only silence greeted my pronouncement, I turned round to see that the soldier had only made it halfway up the (seventeen, I counted) steps by the time I had reached the sitting room door. Realising my _faux pas_, I hastily acted as though I were interestedly poking about the room until he entered at last, slightly out of breath but apparently refusing to feel embarrassed or apologise about his slowness. Proud _and_ stubborn. Very good.

The Doctor's eyes moved methodically around the room, lighting up with some well-hidden excitement when they fell upon a large writing desk in convenient proximity to the left bay window, and then continuing on round the room.

"And the bedrooms?"

"One here, the other on up the stairs," I replied, jerking both thumbs over my shoulders in the corresponding directions.

The landlady had followed us up, a few steps behind the Doctor (no doubt to make certain I would not touch anything…or perhaps to ensure the man was not going to lose his balance) and was now standing in the doorway watching us. She once more gave us the terms, and as divided in half they were more than agreeable we both jumped as one to take it without further haggling (not that the woman would have allowed it).

The agreement being reached, we then returned to the hansom. I was in better spirits than I had been in for many a day, the thought of leaving the Dudley Dungeon being almost too much for my system to, unaccustomed as it was to being shocked into reaction of any kind, bear quietly.

In reaction, I suppose I was (much to my embarrassment, now in retrospect) rather chatty on the ride back to St. Bart's.

"So, Doctor. How do you know that fellow Stamford?" I found myself asking, more out of curiosity than interest. The fellow was nothing at all like Stamford, and how the two of them came to be on a friendly footing was just a tad shocking.

He started, obviously not expecting me to address him directly, and looked from the market we were passing to me.

"He was a dresser under me at Bart's," was the quiet reply.

"You graduated from University of London, then?"

"Yes."

I detected a hint of guardedness in his tone and single-word answer and promptly dropped the subject – obviously the fellow disliked prying as much as I enjoyed performing the offense. But even I would not willingly affront a man I would shortly be sharing a breakfast table with; it simply was not safe, specially if the man had a hidden temper. I'd no desire to find out just _how deeply_ hidden before we had even unpacked our toothbrushes.

I still had an enormous amount of researching to do on Far Eastern ritualistic poisons, and in addition to that I was nowhere near being done with the article I was at present composing about the process of deduction and analysis. Therefore, I had told the cabbie to return me to St. Bart's, for though the laboratory itself was not open the stately edifice was still a much more conducive place to study than was the Dudley nightmare-in-two-stories.

Somewhat to my surprise, when I jumped down out of the cab the veteran disembarked as well, remarking that he was going to walk back to his hotel in the Strand. Both facts interested me and remained in my mind even after he had limped into the crowd and disappeared.

He had been living in the Strand, and yet by his own admission during the course of our setting particulars with Mrs. Hudson had given the sum of his pension as not being enough to live for long in such opulent quarters. Free with his cash, then? That could pose a problem, should he become a spendthrift – I had no wish to have to scramble for rent money, come two months into the occupancy.

But the second observation put my mind at rest upon the matter. He had walked back to the hotel instead of taking the cab. Obviously he was smartly saving a bit of cash, as I had paid for the trip from Baker Street; and he also was apparently forcing himself to move, to exercise, despite fragile health and a quite noticeable limp after going any small distance.

That sort of strength of character bespoke of better self-control than becoming remiss in rent payment. Excellent.

When I finally arrived here – I shall not call it _home_ any longer – tonight late, after three hours of fruitless scribbling, crossing out words, editing, and _still_ not finding the proper title for the blasted article, I told Mrs. Dudley that I would be departing in more sweetness than sorrow upon the morrow.

Said Mrs. Dudley then shrieked so loudly my door fell in once again, squashing a cockroach with an audible _skkrunch_, and Tader came staggering out of his room with a bottle, wanting to know "who the blazes let th' devil's banshee into th' house."

After I propped my door back up to its position (leaning against the wall), and once I regained the use of my hearing after that spell of temporary deafness, I managed to shoo (can one shoo an elephant?) the crone back down the stairs to her lair.

She finally was shooed, rejoicing all the way, and finally disappeared in the kitchen below. I then turned round to see Tader staring at me.

"Leavin' us all with _her_?" he slurred in blank dismay.

"Post-haste," I retorted, "and good riddance."

"Wonderf'l," the man muttered, staggering back into his room and slamming the door, which promptly popped off one hinge. It swayed back and forth for a moment in the draughty hall before falling to the floor with a thud and a cloud of mould rising from the carpet like a spore-ridden phoenix. Disgusting.

I retreated into my room and set my own door back in position, hoping the lock I was twisting into place would keep it upright for one more night; I did not care in the least if the next tenant knew of its attraction to the carpeting. I then began to throw anything and everything I own into packing-cases and the few portmanteaus I possess.

Hence my losing my pocket-watch at some point in the evening. I've no idea what time it is, nor have I any idea what exactly is in these boxes I was so hastily cramming full of my things, one of which I am now sitting on (I hope it is not the one with the microscope), scribbling out this hasty entry.

Somehow I think I shall regret not labeling those packing-cases, come tomorrow…


	8. January 9, 1881

_January 9, 1881_

_1:15 p.m._

Yes, I have found my pocket-watch. Well, actually the Doctor found it, but regardless I have it in my possession again, relatively unscathed. I am just glad it fell into the box containing my wigs and false hair rather than the one housing my phials of corrosive chemicals. Mycroft would assassinate me if anything happened to Father's sacred little timepiece. How I ended up with it instead of brother dearest I shall never know…probably as I took it apart at least bi-weekly as a youngster he thought I deserved to have it always.

It has been a very long and stressful morning. I arrived here early – _very_ early; since the Doctor had said he got up at all sorts of ungodly hours I suspected eight-thirty would be ample time for me to lay claim to my bedroom before he had even opened his hotel curtains.

To my dismay, I found upon my entrance that he had apparently arrived the previous evening (no doubt another effort to save the money spent in a night's hotel lodging), judging by the boxes still in the hall and two more on the landing. Given his current state of health, he probably had been physically unable to move them beyond their current resting-places. Wonderful, that meant I would in all probability be expected to take on the role of pack-horse at some point in the morning.

My good humour vanished instantly, as I had no doubt I would shortly be engaging in a territorial battle for space and possession – I was not about to relinquish my claim on the lower bedroom without a fight.

To my surprise, when I staggered into the sitting room with a crate of chemical equipment (at least I thought it was chemical equipment, though it might very well be my waistcoats and cuff-links), the man himself was seated at the table, fully dressed, and sipping a cup of coffee. Coffee, not tea? Unusual in an Englishman…and I thought _I_ was the only fellow in London who preferred our colonial cousins' brew to start the day with an awakening jolt.

"Good morning. Coffee?"

"Not just now, thank you," I replied stiffly, unused to being spoken to at all in the mornings other than the random growl from my former landlady or a slurred apology if Tader knocked me over on his way to the bath down the hall.

I edged backward slowly and attempted to unobtrusively check the adjoining bedroom for signs of occupancy.

Apparently, either I was not as subtle as I thought I was (highly unlikely) or the soldier is more observant than he appears at first glance (even more unlikely), for he looked up from the newspaper he was reading and spoke as if reading my thoughts.

"If you don't mind, I took possession of the upstairs bedroom last night…unless you'd prefer to have it of course," said he with some hesitation.

I was startled, not only at his perceiving what I was doing but also at his choice of rooms. And to my utter astonishment, instead of snapping up the chance at once, I found myself gazing at him quizzically and questioning him. What the devil was wrong with my brain, besides the shock of actually having to converse before ten of a morning?

"Are you quite certain, Doctor? If you'll pardon my saying so, those stairs could get bothersome for you."

_There, Mycroft_. I can be every bit as courteous as the next man when I so choose. Which will not be often, but first impressions are most important and call for special (and sometimes painful) measures.

The Doctor only smiled and stirred more sugar into his coffee. "Actually, I am rather a light sleeper…even more so now than in former days," he replied matter-of-factly. "I believe the distance might be of help there."

I observed him silently for a moment before nodding thoughtfully. No doubt, returning from what he had seen, the man would be lucky to even have one full night of peaceful slumber…besides being a _light_ sleeper, he most likely was also a _noisy_ one. And of course, he did not want me to know the fact.

I dropped the crate of chemical equipment (or whatever it was) on the deal table close to the bedroom door and took stock of the sitting room. Nothing appeared to have been put away as of yet, surprisingly.

"I didn't want to appropriate anything last night without discussing it with you first," the doctor ventured. "Sure you don't want some coffee? It's rather strong, but just the thing on a cold morning like this one."

I hesitated, the novelty of the first statement catching me completely off-guard. He had actually not taken possession of whatever he wanted, even though he had arrived last night? That was a given right, the privilege of what our American cousins call _staking a claim_. Had I been he, three-quarters of the room (or most likely more) would have been covered by now in something of mine to give a clear territorial signal. Odd, very odd.

Not knowing exactly how to counter the first sentence, I chose to respond to the second instead, hesitatingly seating myself in the other chair across from him. I watched as he began to lift the coffee-pot with his left hand, then hastily set the thing down with a barely perceptible grimace before using his right to pass it to me.

As I absently stirred milk into the brew, I nearly laughed at the absurdity of the situation – this was the first time in at least three years that I had sat across from someone else in so casual and domestic a manner, sharing a pot of coffee.

Good coffee, too. My new landlady might be stern, but she made a very passable cup of the stuff.

"Mrs. Hudson said she'd be fixing ham and eggs for breakfast," the Doctor timidly broke the somewhat awkward silence, glancing curiously at me with those sharp eyes.

"Excellent," I replied mechanically, desperately casting about in my mind for something to discuss besides the weather, which was freezing as usual and therefore devoid of any interest.

A long pause choked the room, during which I emptied my cup and drank two more (in the space of thirty seconds, which I would not recommend doing again for obvious reasons).

I glanced feverishly about the room, completely unaccustomed to making small talk with anyone, least of all with a total stranger…and I was going to have to do this every morning for the next _six months_? The thought nearly made me scream aloud. Perhaps we would not have to share breakfasts if the Doctor slept late every morning…or I should just have to leave the flat early enough to negate meeting him on the way…

My frantically darting eyes fell upon the larger of the two desks there by the bay windows. Hah, I had it, a topic of conversation!

"Doctor, I noticed yesterday that you appeared to be fascinated with that cherry writing desk," I said eagerly, childishly triumphant in actually being the first to say something. "I've no objections if you'd like to lay claim to it."

I watched as a slow, spreading smile crept over my companion's face. "Jolly decent of you, Holmes," he replied in some excitement. "I confess I do a good deal of writing, and it would be ideal."

"That's settled then," I responded with enforced cheerfulness, desperately trying to think of something else to say. Ah. "Would you mind terribly if I used that corner for my chemicals?"

"Certainly not," he replied easily, glancing somewhat hesitantly at me again over the rim of his cup.

I poured myself another cup of coffee, and before I could ask, the Doctor passed me the milk pitcher. Observant, indeed, far beyond that harmless appearance. Very interesting.

I wriggled nervously in my chair for the next sixty-two and one half seconds, attempting with growing desperation to think of something to break the silence that had swirled back in around us. The man across from me looked no less uncomfortable (for which I was meanly glad), contenting himself by fidgeting uneasily with his silverware.

Finally…

"Morning paper?" he asked brightly, offering the _Times_ over to me.

I breathed a sigh of relief and buried my face in the criminal news until breakfast was served.

Somehow (I have no idea _how_), I made it through breakfast (which actually was excellent, compared to the daily rations of poison I was accustomed to being favored with from the Dudley woman) without dying of suffocation or discomfort. After our landlady had cleared our plates, I began to haul my boxes up from the hall downstairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's warning me in no uncertain terms not to dent the wall-paper on my way up the steps.

I paused in shoving my trunk containing old case notes (at least I _think_ that is what is in there, I have not unpacked it yet) into my room to watch the veteran attempting to pick up one of his own packing-cases from the floor of the hall downstairs.

I felt a strange sensation, either pity or admiration, cross my mind as he took a good two minutes to manage to lift the thing, what with a bad shoulder and obviously unable to bend very far. He scooted the box closer to the stairs with his left foot and then used a heavy walking-stick from the hall stand along with his foot to lever it up three steps, putting it at a better angle for him to lift with that bad shoulder. Which he did, but not without staggering under the weight of it against the wall of the staircase.

At this rate, he was going to faint before he managed to get everything up to his bedroom.

I shook my head and hauled the trunk into my chamber, where it at present resides under this bed for now. I had carried all three boxes containing my clothes and various disguises into my room and was dropping the last carton of chemical apparatus on the deal table in the sitting room by the time the Doctor reached the room as well with his burden.

I was alarmed to see his face suddenly drain of colour under the tan, and reflexively I jumped to take the box from his shaking hands. More out of common-sense than concern, naturally – having to deal with an injured doctor falling all over the floor whilst I was attempting to unpack my things was not a planned part of my day's itinerary.

Good Lord – no wonder the man looked half-fainting, the crate had to weigh close to forty pounds! I would never have guessed that a man in such fragile health would have even been able to _lift_ the thing, much less carry it up seventeen steps. This chap was made of sterner stuff than met the eye in that thin frame.

"Good grief, Doctor, what the devil have you got in here?" I gasped as he collapsed into the closest chair with a murmured word of thanks.

"I was foolish enough to place most of my books into one box," he admitted faintly. "Stupid of me, considering the distance they had to go."

I agreed wholeheartedly but did not voice the sentiment, more to save my breath than out of any real politeness. "Where do you want this, on the desk?"

"Yes, thank you, Holmes."

I dumped my load with a thud, hoping the legs of the desk were strong enough to withstand the strain, all while keeping one eye upon the foolish idiot. But within a moment or two his breathing began to slow to normal and the colour seeped back into his face.

I still do not know why I offered, but I did ask if he needed help with the other boxes. I received a polite refusal and explanation that the one I had taken from him was the heaviest; he was more than capable of getting the others to their destinations.

Stubborn fool.

Apparently Mrs. Hudson has just brought in our luncheon, for I can smell split-pea soup (at least I hope that is what it is) wafting in from the sitting room.

How wonderful a feeling it is to not be forced to hide this journal in the most _outré_ places from the prying eyes of a malignant specimen of the London landladyship. I doubt that the good Mrs. Hudson could even care if I _know_ how to write, and the Doctor does not strike me as the snooping type.

Though personally, I am of the opinion that the world would be better off with the unspoken rule that if the object remains in plain sight, it is fair game for interested parties (like me) to look at, but still...


	9. January 9, 1881 II

_January 9, 1881_

_11:50 p.m._

When I moved, apparently I neglected to give Morpheus a forwarding address for he has not been able to locate me as of yet. The bed is comfortable – _too_ comfortable, for my bones have grown accustomed in the last two years to reclining upon a pallet containing more lumps than one of Mrs. Dudley's custards. Now that I am resting in something that actually feels like a _bed_, I am unable to fall asleep. Lovely.

And it is freezing in here, even with the hot-water bottle (which is now only a lukewarm water bottle) under the bedclothes. However, I suppose I should be grateful that I have had the benefit of a warm fire for the majority of the evening, something I heretofore have been sadly deprived of.

And having nothing better to do to induce slumber, I have taken to scribbling, in hopes that my trite and pointless conversation will bore me to the point of falling asleep in short order.

Luncheon was a quiet (if quite tasty, though I was not overly thrilled with the blueberry tart) affair, and I ate as hastily as etiquette would permit, in order to not prolong the agony of tense conversation. After the dishes were cleared, I spent the next three hours in unpacking and rearranging my bedroom to my satisfaction (or at least to my tolerance, as I have no doubt I will still be re-arranging for days to come until everything is where I want it to be). Surprisingly, everything fit in its proper (or at least _a_ proper) place. Hah, I knew I could do it.

The Doctor slept most of the afternoon, having evidently exhausted himself hauling boxes and so on around the house, and so it was not until after a light supper that we began to divide and conquer our respective territories in the shared sitting room.

I was pleasantly surprised to find the veteran had not many possessions besides that one ridiculously enormous box of books; a few medical charts, various surgical instruments which were neatly packed in the typical physician's bag, and a small lock-box being the only things he retained that did not fit in his tiny bedroom upstairs.

This was as well, for my own things took up rather more space than my due share.

Either this chap is far too _laissez-faire_ and non-confrontational for his own good, or else he is legitimately tolerant of my encroaching on his space. Regardless of which, I was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth and simply filled the empty shelves he left with my possessions.

It took him all of ten swift minutes to unpack his box of books – journals and cheap novels, most of them – and the other items he had brought onto his desk and one of the shelves in the room. I envied the man's rapidity in unpacking, for I was as slow and unmethodical in the infernal task as it was possible to be (in childhood days, Mycroft would end up doing it for me because I would drive him mad in dawdling, I hated the chore so) and it irritated me to no end when the Doctor finally sat in one of the fireside chairs (good, I had wanted the one on the right anyway; the seat had more padding) and watched me wrestle with my boxes – why the devil had I gummed that brown paper so thickly? Can I do nothing shoddily?

"Have you a scissors handy?" he interjected helpfully as I swore at the offensive box, glaring as it sat there calmly retaining its secrets, mocking me with its invincibility.

Stunning quick thinking, Doctor. "I've no idea where they might _be_ in this mess," I growled, not in the mood for inane questions at the moment. Or _any_ moment, for that matter.

He rose stiffly from the armchair and rummaged round in heaven only knew what for a few seconds; I ignored him and tried to work my now-broken index fingernail underneath the stubborn thick paper.

"Here, let me," I heard his voice over my shoulder, and a moment later the box had been bested by the business end of a surgical instrument. _O happy scalpel! This is thy sheath… _

Perhaps this chap was not so dense as I had suspected at first glance.

"Want me to get the rest of these open? That's one thing I _can_ do," he asked a bit ruefully, watching with what I suspected was some envy as I easily stretched up my arm to place my books on the top-most shelf.

Better he should help me than sit there staring at me working, anyway. "That would be appreciated, Doctor," I replied, hoping very emphatically that that scalpel had been sanitized since its last use.

For a few moments there was no sound in the room save the ticking of that hideous mantel-clock of Mrs. Hudson's and the steady _scrrrrrripp_ of my hastily-packed boxes being sliced open.

I turned to jump down from my perch in order to grab a stack of books, only to nearly bowl my companion over as he stood below me holding the remainder of the box's contents. Saved me a trip to the floor, at any rate, though I wished he would _warn_ a fellow before sneaking up on him like that; the habit could be a potentially dangerous thing were I attempting indoor revolver practice, for example. Though considering his state of nerves, it is probably best that I not attempt that particular pastime for a few weeks yet.

"_Medieval Torture Devices and Their Uses_…?" I grinned as I heard him mutter the title of the topmost volume aloud. "Good Lord, Holmes, what do you fill your mind with?"

"You would be surprised, Doctor, and probably somewhat disturbed. Unless one of your medical interests is that of the psyche and its warped possibilities."

"Is that a warning, or a challenge?" he asked pertly, raising a mocking eyebrow as he handed up my volumes on the categorization of poisonous plant life.

I realised with some surprise that…he was actually _teasing_ me! An entirely unusual sensation to me, for no one had done so (_dared_ to do so, been foolish enough to do so) in many a year, save my brother (and that most definitely did not count, as it was expected of all siblings, elder or otherwise). All my acquaintances knew full well that a battle of wits with Sherlock Holmes was no battle but a mere massacre. This fellow didn't know whom he was dealing with, not yet anyway.

He would learn.

"_Venomous Snakes of the Far East_…" he read aloud once more, stooping slowly to pick up another stack of tomes from a second box. "Should I be growing nervous right about now?"

I considered (with great amusement) telling him I owned a trained spitting cobra, but as the man was only just back from India I decided that would be in slightly poor taste. I contented myself with saying mischievously, "If I decide to adopt a house pet, I shall of course let you know so as to have on hand the ingredients for an antivenin, Doctor."

Silence for a moment, during which I kept my grinning face hidden in the bookshelf in front of me.

"Somehow I don't think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate a viper greeting her from under the hearth-stones of a morning," was the entirely serious reply that drifted up from below me.

This time I found myself laughing outright, for some ridiculous (and unidentifiable) reason, and I hopped down from my perch after slamming the last few books into place in time to see that slow smile aimed at me for the second time that day.

He tossed the last book in my direction before stacking the empty boxes into one neat and perfectly balanced pile and rolling up the discarded packing tape into one neat ball and sticking it atop the foremost packing-case.

Was the man a complete tidiness-maniac (not another Mycroft, good Lord no!)? He would drive me absolutely stark raving mad before a week were out if he continued to clean up after me in that manner. _Please, no…_

My new fellow-lodger turned and started to pick up another box, and I hastily jumped forward in something of a slight panic.

"Don't touch that, Doctor!" I snapped, with more force than I had intended. With a slightly shocked expression, the fellow allowed the crate to gently return to its place on the table.

"Sorry," he apologized quietly, making me wince inside as I realised just how loud I had been. This process of communicating with someone other than a drunken neighbour or a screeching landlady would take some getting used to, and appeared to entail far more work and energy than I really wanted to expend.

"It's all right, Doctor, it's just that I cannot remember what I put in that one – for I all know, it could be flammable chemicals," I explained hastily.

One raised eyebrow and a cautious step back from the table. "You…have flammable chemicals around."

"Yes, among other things. I _told_ you I did experiments occasionally," I said in annoyance. Was the man incapable of remembering an item discussed in our terms only two days ago?

"And…you don't think it necessary to _label_ the box they're in?"

"I…_forgot_," I protested lamely, realising how stupid the fact must sound after all my talk about clear thinking. I had just a few other things in and pressing on my mind last night!

One redeeming quality in a character so amiable (_so far_, at any rate) that it could grow to be rather nauseating: the man does know when to drop an embarrassing subject. He is definitely either overly kind or else the non-confrontational type. The latter I seriously doubt, as he is a soldier and a doctor, but time alone will tell. I for one have no desire to try his limits.

Not yet.

"All right, then," said he, stepping back from the box, "tell me what I can do to help you put things away without performing an experiment in spontaneous combustion."

What a bizarre sense of humour this fellow has, honestly. What is even stranger still, is the fact that I found myself actually holding back laughter at it – quite refreshing, really, after the gallows humour of my former (_former_, how I love that word!) landlady and the average plodding medico at the hospital.

I of course did not crack a visible reaction, hiding my smirk as I opened the box on the table. "No chemicals, Doctor, just my weapons collection," I said with attempted affability, pulling out my favourite loaded hunting crop with some fondness. _Good times, those_…

I would be willing to swear I heard him mutter something along the lines of _Why does that not surprise me_, but I cannot be quite certain. At any rate, I began to retrieve the items and put them on the table, wondering where I should stow them in the room – it would not do to frighten prospective clients away with a collection of the sort, and I doubted Mrs. Hudson would appreciate a scimitar adorning her mantel.

"My word," my companion's remark penetrated my thoughts as he lifted one of the weapons from the table. "What the deuce are you doing with a _Thuggee Rumal_?"

I was slightly surprised he had recognised the thing, until I remembered. India, of course. "I collect odd and unusual weapons," I said carelessly, opening a drawer and beginning to shove the things in there for now.

The scimitar would not fit, and so I tossed it into the umbrella-stand with the swordstick. In retrospect, I do hope the Doctor doesn't drop something and shove his hand in there unsuspectingly; undoubtedly I would get blamed and also have to take him to Bart's for stitches, and Stamford would never let me hear the end of it…

"So I see…fine hair-trigger you've got there," he said thoughtfully, hefting the gun in an obviously practised hand. I _had _remembered to unload it after my missing-wife-search, thank heaven.

I could tell that he was beyond curious at this point regarding my odd collection of possessions, but apparently he is the type to mind his own business (which suits me perfectly, as I would never be able to stand him otherwise), since he made no move to question me further. He has not yet seen the portraits adorning my wall in the bedroom – no doubt the sight would provoke an onslaught of embarrassing questions I really would not care to and would refuse to answer.

With his help, I managed to at least strew everything round the room outside of the cases, and after collapsing the boxes he volunteered to take them up to the lumber-room above his bedroom. I was about to do it myself, but upon his insisting he needed the exercise after not venturing out today due to the ice-storm, I let him – besides, I was dead tired, nearly out on my feet.

How I hate unpacking and enforced sociability – I cannot decide which one exhausts me more.

I had left a pile of miscellanea on the armchair he had not been sitting in, and I briefly considered dumping the entire heap on the floor and hiding it under the rug. But as that would no doubt gather a stern reprimand from my new landlady, I sighed and steeled myself to finish the task, putting the various small items where they belonged. Ink-bottle on the other desk, three mismatched cuff-links on the dish in my bedroom, ball of packing-tape in the wastepaper-basket, the scalpel the Doctor had been using back in his bag (my word, the man organized his powders in alphabetical order? And Mycroft always said _I_ was obsessive with my organization)…

He was coming back down the stairs now, and I was left holding the remaining item, a box containing four cigars …where the devil to put it, I rarely smoked the things anyway…

I really was far too exhausted to care where they went and so merely collapsed into my chair at long, _long_ last, flinging the box into the nearby coal-scuttle. I would move them later, if I remembered. And if not, I really did not care at the moment and would probably never remember.

One thing that I do enjoy very much about this new apartment is the fireplace. So novel was the sensation of actually sitting in front of something _warm_ on such a bitter night, that apparently I fell asleep not long after the Doctor returned to the room (that is also another reason why I probably cannot sleep now, confound it!); for when I awoke to the clock striking half-past-ten, the blaze was merely smallish glowing coals and the room was lit only by a softly-glowing lamp.

My fellow-lodger had apparently taken himself off to bed at some point during my slumber, the only evidences of his departure being a dog-eared, paperback novel on the seat of his chair, an empty glass beside said chair…

…and an afghan thrown across my legs, which had been stretched out in front of me as I slept.

Some strange medical instinct, I suppose, no doubt his not wanting to waste his time in future days in dealing with a fellow-lodger's head cold, due to sleeping without warmth or cover all night. At least that is the only logical explanation that will cover the facts…


	10. January 10, 1881

_January 10, 1881_

_8:41 a.m._

I wish a block of script could convey both the heartfelt sincerity and franticness of the scream I am suppressing at the moment.

This ice storm hit in all its clear glory early this morning, making travel to any distance in London exceeding that of the nearest corner, by foot or vehicle, absolutely impossible unless an utter emergency – the entire city has come to a standstill, I cannot go to the Museum or the hospital or anywhere for that matter to do anything, and I am trapped here in this house with a new and entirely too-cheerful fellow-lodger for the duration of the storm! Which will be heaven only knows how long!

What am I going to _do_ for twelve hours, until I can in good conscience go back to bed?

This is _not_ going to be a good day…

* * *

_10:55 p.m._

Thankfully the Doctor slept until well after ten, giving me ample opportunity to peruse the papers without having to worry about sharing them. It only now occurs to me…that perhaps I was a bit hasty in clipping out the articles that engaged my attention for my common-place books before he had the opportunity to go through the news. Regardless, it is too late now; and thankfully he lost interest in the thing before reaching the section I so thoroughly dissected. Not that he strikes me as the type to avidly peruse the agony column, but still.

The wind is whipping even still so badly round this house that the window-panes are rattling quite audibly, and the temperature dropped so rapidly today that neither of us moved from the sitting room all afternoon, not wanting to put any great distance between us and that incredibly attractive fire.

This enforced close quarters was so annoying after four hours that I braved the chill to seclude myself in my bedroom after tea, but after my hands nearly froze so badly that I could not pound the nails into the walls (and also did not feel said hammer pound my thumb, so nerveless were my extremities by that point) to finish hanging my portraits, I sacrificed mental comfort for physical and returned, somewhat warily, to the sitting room.

To my immense relief, the Doctor was seated at his desk, scribbling a letter or some such and occasionally eyeing the nearby window when it would give a particularly alarming creak. I suppose it is a good thing for me that obviously the man is either unable or unwilling to concentrate on more than one action simultaneously, as it gained me another valuable hour of silence until he had finished and was sealing up the envelope. Which time I used to unpack and organize my chemical compounds and equipment.

_Note to self – Apparently my box of blank slides went to the great petrie dish above at some point during the move. Must buy a new box, if I can manage to escape from this frosty prison tomorrow._

Actually, ice or no ice, I cannot stand being trapped in here another day. I _will _get the slides tomorrow, if I have to use a rope and ice-pick to get myself over to Oxford Street.

Unfortunately for both of us, I was the one who at last broke the silence…and also broke a small phial of charcoal dust, which slipped from my shivering hands and for some completely illogical reason decided to shatter loudly upon impact with the deal table – apparently the blasted thing must have hit the surface at its exact weakest point.

The resultant profanity that slipped from my mouth stopped before it hit my teeth, halted in its tracks by a hoarse wordless cry that I could only describe as fright, though the very notion was thoroughly incongruous to both character and the situation.

I glanced up in some shock to see my fellow-lodger halfway out of his chair, white-knuckled hands gripping the arms of the furniture in a near death-clinch, and I could have kicked myself from here to St. Pancras for my carelessness when I realised. He had not been exaggerating when he told me his nerves were shot to pieces, and the loud crack of breaking glass had no doubt triggered some battle-instinct…indeed, I could not tell from his current frozen position if he were about to dive under the desk or if he were hastily on his way up from doing so.

"I'm terribly sorry, Doctor," I said quickly, and quite sincerely – for that was a cruel jest to play upon a recent veteran and even I, lover of all things melodramatic that I am, would never have purposely done such a thing. "That was very remiss of me; do forgive my clumsiness."

I watched as he gulped hastily and forced an obviously false smile onto his bloodless face. Fiercely proud fellow that I had already discovered him to be, no doubt that episode had been highly embarrassing. I turned my attention from him back to the broken glass and charcoal dust, trying to clean up the mess I had strewn everywhere and also give him a moment to calm himself without my staring at him and making matters worse (which I tend to do accidentally too often to desire to increase the possibility intentionally).

Whether that was the best course of action to take or not, it apparently was the right solution; for a moment later, he brought over a large envelope and held it under the table for me to sweep the mess into. I could see that his expression was fast returning to normal, and therefore I made no further comment on the matter.

"You've cut your finger," I vaguely heard him say worriedly a moment later, as I swept the remaining dust into the paper sheath, not seeing the tiny bits of glass that remained amongst the charcoal.

"Mm? So I did," I replied absently, shaking the offending digit as it began to sting from the small sliver of glass that had sliced it. My index finger, too, confound it…but at least on my right hand. Were it my left I should not be able to play the violin until it healed.

From the way he fussed over the minor mishap, however, one would think I had been mortally wounded. I nearly shook him off in complete frustration, until it occurred to me that over-reaction and the need to keep busy were common symptoms of trauma. While I do not (and never will) profess to be subject to what other people apparently feel regarding emotions and all their various unstable forms, I do _understand_ such things in a purely logical sequence of cause and effect – I should be a poor specialist indeed, could I not identify a problem and its motives for the benefit of my clients' peace of mind. This was no different.

I allowed him to bandage the small gash (though I drew the line at that burning iodine, he slipped the cotton-wool onto the scratch whilst I was arguing, the sneaky devil) and permitted him to fuss however long he needed to, enduring the whole mess in the hope that afterwards the room would return to normality (what one could ever call normality in my presence, at any rate).

Which it did, though only a stiff brandy or two later. I did not touch the chemicals the rest of the evening, which suited me (and him, no doubt) perfectly fine as the evening post had brought a detailed message from Inspector Lestrade, asking my opinion on a pretty little murder he had blundered his way half-through before realising his usual incompetent state and turning to me.

I nearly broke my finger in addition to scratching it, trying to light a match around the infernal bandage the Doctor had attached to it (I took the infernal thing off as soon as he retired, else I should not be able to be writing this now). This feat was virtually impossible, and I nearly set the bandaging on fire as well before finally getting my pipe to draw ten minutes later.

For the next four hours I remained in my fireside position, smoking and working my freezing brain around Lestrade's petty little difficulty. It truly presented no great obstacles to its solution; many are the little fellow's faults, but his one redeeming quality is thoroughness. He had provided me with enough details (and the payment for my help, which greatly motivated my thought processes to a slightly less-frigid speed) that before the dinner dishes had been cleared my mind was completely satisfied with the affair.

I had been vaguely aware of my new landlady squawking about my not eating at some point in the evening (now _there_ was a definite reversal from Mrs. Dudley's taking my unused plate of fodder to double as her own dessert), though I had no idea when that had been (she had only penetrated my thoughts for the unguarded instant – I was well used to blocking far louder noises than she from my mental battlegrounds). And it appeared that the Doctor had retired soon after the meal had been cleared, for he was nowhere to be seen in the room.

I was about to crack a window to dissipate the slight haze that lingered in the air, but when a particularly brutal gust of wind slammed into the pane so loudly that for a moment I wondered if a body had been thrown against it (not likely, as we were on the second-floor, but that is the curse of an overly-active imagination such as mine), I hastily decided a clear atmosphere was not worth putting icicles on the gas jets.

I scribbled out a reply to Lestrade's message, telling him I would be by with full particulars in the morning if the cabs were running and that afternoon if they were not, and sent it off post-haste. Then, rather bored with nothing in particular to do besides fight off a case of mild frostbite, I found myself sprawled in my chair, absently picking at the strings of my Stradivarius, tuning them slowly for they had grown rather loose in the move from Montague Street.

Finally, after fifteen minutes in front of the inferno Mrs. Hudson had created in the fireplace, my hands and brain had thawed sufficiently and I twisted round with my legs over the arm of the chair and my back against the other arm, putting my lovely instrument to my shoulder and dashing off a bit of Beethoven's _Kreutzer Sonata_ before I yawned and broke my train of memory, causing a very unpleasant squeak in the twenty-first measure. _Eugh_. There remains nothing I hate more in the world (besides _ennui_ and one Beatrice Dudley) than a squeaking violin.

I am not accustomed to keeping late hours, and as it was twenty minutes to nine I was about to stop fighting the pull of my weariness (boredom, without question, has always tired me far more than any amount of work ever could do) and take myself off to my bed, when the door opened and the Doctor hesitantly poked his head in. I raised myself somewhat awkwardly to peer over my knees at the doorway.

Blast, had I woken him up? I had not meant to.

No, he was still in his shirtsleeves and trousers, a dressing-gown over the ensemble. He had not been sleeping, merely keeping a wary distance after the slight mishap this afternoon. I really could not blame the fellow.

"You needn't stand there, Doctor, it is your sitting room as well," I said dryly, seeing his hesitation. I pointed my bow peremptorily at the other armchair.

A quick smile and nod, and he was settling in the seat opposite me, looking at me curiously, and I would swear with amusement at my unusual position. _Might as well get used to the latter, Doctor, I have no intention of sticking to society's conventional methods of keeping the furniture sacred._

I plinked my way absently up the chromatic scale on my E string until the shrillness of the third position grated on even my nerves, before slowly moving back down the string with small twangs.

"When you said you played, I'd no idea you meant so well," I heard my companion venture shyly.

I nearly snorted rudely in innate skepticism (though I knew he was referring to the Sonata and not the scale), but the noise died in my throat when I saw from his eyes that he was completely serious, and not merely making conversation or stating the typical superfluous courtesies our society delighted in bestowing upon our fellows. Somehow he does not strike me as the type to say anything other than exactly what he means, besides.

Really? Actually _enjoyed_ it?

How does one respond to a sincere compliment? I cannot say I have ever had to reply to such; the most praise I ever received for my pains in learning the instrument was a patient "Yes, Sherlock, that is lovely. Now do go practice on the _other_ side of the house." from Mycroft when I was but thirteen and a threat to "burn the bloody thing" if Dudley-the-Dreadful heard one more Bach fugue after eight-fifteen of an evening.

What _does_ one say to a compliment of that sort?

"Erm…thank you, Doctor," was the best I could come up with, scrambling frenetically for the proper etiquette in such a situation. _Blazes_…this was why I never went to parties; besides the obvious horror of having to meet and sustain conversation with more than one new person at a time, I simply had no desire to embarrass myself by an inherent inability to respond appropriately to any given situation…

Aha, I had an fitting response! "Anything…in particular…you'd care to hear?" _Please, oh please, do not request any of that Gilbert and Sullivan claptrap, or I shall forget all courtesy and scream loud enough to be heard on the Marylebone Road…_

Hazel eyes contracted in deep thought for a moment, obviously childishly pleased at being asked. _Second note to self: Easy way of ingratiation or peace-offering if necessary in future – offer to play a favourite._

"Mendelssohn's _Lieder_?" he asked hesitantly, after a minute or two of thinking.

I absently tapped the side of my head with the end of the bow, trying to remember the piece in its entirety – it had been a long while, for no one else of my acquaintance had ever cared for the finer classics and as such I never had opportunity or incentive to play them, preferring my own darker and wilder compositions. Still, I _had_ asked. Served me right for voluntarily bringing social torture upon myself.

"I am a trifle rusty, I fear, Doctor, but if you'll bear with me…"

He (thankfully) stopped my verbal floundering with an eager nod, allowing me to shut my mouth and retreat into the more familiar ground of the universal language, a much easier one to communicate with than that of our awkward English tongue.

I was extremely surprised when that hideous clock striking ten-thirty caused us both to jump in our chairs. Surely the thing was running fast – there was no logical way that two hours could have passed in that amount of time. I must check the infernal device against my pocket-watch tomorrow and let Mrs. Hudson know it is off by quite a bit.


	11. January 14 & 17, 1881

_True to my favorite performances, I've kept Lestrade's first name the one that the BBC and Bert Coules have used, though Aragonite's_ Geoffrey _has become a sort of Canon in itself._

* * *

_January 14, 1881_

_7:41 p.m._

The next time Lestrade sends me a message wanting my help over a 'simple little murder' I shall use said message to light my pipe and then promptly mail its sender a beautifully-wrapped bottle of the finest cyanide the Oxford Street chemist can provide me with.

The dear Inspector's _simple little problem_, a murder that as I said I had solved within six hours of my first hearing of it, evolved into a full-scale police (and amateur, for I did the majority of the work) pursuit of the murderer through the smelliest portion of Billingsgate, lasted for three days (during which I was unable to return home for fear of losing the trail or being discovered), and culminated with my being abducted and taken into one of the warehouses, bound hand and foot, and packed in a wooden crate full of dead (and not very well-preserved) tunas for over an hour before Lestrade found me.

Not the best three days I have ever spent, specially those last few hours. Worse than the severe chill I caught in the process is the fact that _Lestrade_ of all people was the one to pry the lid off the crate and make the unpardonable pun of "Now this is a pretty kettle of fish, Mr. Holmes."

To make matters a hundred times worse, Mrs. Hudson was the only inhabitant of the Baker Street house when I arrived at last four hours ago, reeking of fish and having to face the music for not having sent word that I would be disappearing for three days.

Of all the times for the Doctor to take a constitutional in the snow, he had to choose the one minute I would actually have been _glad_ to see him, to act as a buffer between me and a very affronted landlady. Not even the paper-wrapped half-dozen tuna I handed her as a peace offering helped the woman's outrage.

Granted, the dressing-down ended with her shooing me up the stairs and going to heat water for the bath…Mrs. Dudley would have sworn a streak that would have turned a sailor's ears blue and kicked me into the street until I got the smell off me. Odd. Somehow I got the distinctly bizarre impression that my current landlady was more _worried_ about my absence than _joyful_, as I would have expected the logical reaction to be. That is most strange, and will certainly bear thinking about once my head has cleared somewhat.

A hot bath (scented with some of the woman's dreadfully flowery oil – lavender, I think. Eugh.) did much to destroy the tuna-smell, but I do not think I shall be able to eat fish again for a long, long time to come. Worse still, I am now running a fever of 101, according to the Doctor, and I have sneezed so often that I appear to have given myself a neck injury from the jerking motion.

I am very much regretting moving in with a medico, I can say that much with deep conviction. Apparently I have risen in status from _fellow-lodger_ to _laboratory rat_, for he seems far too thrilled than is healthy to have a patient close at hand to practice upon. He is driving me absolutely _out of my mind_, which is a shorter journey than many would think.

He got back exhausted from a too-long walk in the cold, judging by the more pronounced and uncharacteristically slow limp I heard upon the stairs when he arrived, but after dumping his coat and hat in the sitting room his next move was not to warm up by the fire but rather to descend upon me in all his medical glory, shoving a thermometer under my tongue before I could protest and holding it there despite all my efforts to swear at him and spit it out.

"You've most likely got a fever – and where the devil have you _been_ for three days?" he demanded irritably, rummaging through his black bag with his free hand.

"Blisgrt," I muttered obligingly from behind the glass. Why ask a question when obviously I was incapable of answering?

"What?" he queried, glancing at his watch and pulling the thing out of my mouth, leaving a nasty (and painful) indentation on the underside of my tongue, along with the faintly glassy taste of antiseptic.

"Billingsgate," I growled shortly, eyeing with some trepidation the dark-glass bottle he was reading the label of. Unless that were a warming drink, alcoholic or otherwise, I was completely not interested.

"But…how did you acquire so bad a chill, Holmes? Were you not inside somewhere all this time?" Two sharp, horrified eyes bored uncomfortably into mine as if speaking to a schoolboy who had played hookey for the last few days and returned in worse condition than when he departed.

"Actually, I spent the last two hours _inside_ a crate of tuna in one of the warehouses," I replied with a streak of wicked mischief. _Let's see your reaction to __that__ one, Doctor._

The blankly dubious look that suffused his face was almost worth the chills that were sending shivers throughout my entire system at the moment. He blinked once, processing this statement with obvious skepticism, and finally shook his head; no doubt believing me to be off my mind with a fever and therefore unreliable.

"You really shouldn't talk for a while, Holmes," he admonished sternly, closing the bag and dropping it beside the bed. _Take it __out__ of here, I don't want you coming back in here for it!_ "I'll have Mrs. Hudson fix you some hot lemon water, and you should try to sleep off some of that fever; I shall have to administer a powder or something of the sort if it gets much higher."

Hot lemon water. Disgusting. Where the blazes do these so-called professionals get these completely ludicrous ideas?

I was about to make a scathing comment, but the arrival of two more blankets that he pulled down from the top of my wardrobe (not without wincing, as his arm had to stretch to reach them) sent enough warmth through me that the welcome sensation drove out some of my irritation. I only momentarily debated a cutting "Physician, heal thyself"; but because that would be rather foolish were I to become dependent on him for another blanket as it got colder, merely contented myself with sniffling, growling, and rolling over to face the wall, my heavy eyelids dropping closed immediately.

At least the man can take a hint, for he left soon after, though he did not close the door. I was not about to get out of my warm bed to do it.

Two hours later, he woke me to read my temperature again and force a glass of something hot and foul down my throat. He _said_ it was sweetened with honey to mask the bitterness, but I could taste nothing of the kind. I was wholly unimpressed with his powers of medication and told him so colourfully, but rather than being annoyed he actually _laughed_ at me!

I have a high suspicion that he slipped something in the swill besides lemon and a fever-reducing powder, for it could not have been two minutes later that I fell asleep again, and I only woke when the wind picked up and slammed against the house a few minutes ago with a wail chillingly reminiscent of Mrs. Dudley's singing. I lit the candle beside my bed and, as this scribble-book was the only volume within my reach and I most definitely was not about to compromise my equilibrium in getting up for something more entertaining, here I sit, writing disjointedly by the light of a single candle.

I do wish I would stop sneezing; it makes my handwriting look so deucedly untidy and irregular. And apparently –

_January 17, 1881_

_10:35 a.m._

As the paper was entirely devoid of interest this morning, I am scribbling here whilst waiting for Mrs. Hudson to bring up breakfast – my first real meal in nearly a week, and I am more than looking forward to it…but _no kippers_, I told her most emphatically with a shudder.

The abrupt ending of my last entry (and the long scratch in the paper) was due to a certain incensed Doctor yanking the journal out of my hands with a stern admonishment that I was sick and not to strain my eyes, what did I think I was doing, don't let him catch me at it again, etc., etc., _ad nauseum_. Literally.

Had I been able to clearly see which of the two wavering images standing in front of me was the actual John Watson, I might have fought the pronouncement. As it was, I found that I unaccountably and rather feebly could not and allowed him to put the book on my bureau before checking my temperature again.

I sneezed just after the infernal instrument gained position, and the thermometer flew out of my mouth against the wall, amusing me to no end. My self-appointed torturer was not quite as entertained by the thing as I was, however, and after sterilizing the instrument and glaring my snickering into sniffling silence he returned and timed the device once more.

The look of concern that flitted across his face as he read the thing told me the verdict before his words did. "Your fever's rising, Holmes," he said worriedly, shaking the mercury back down into the glass.

_I_ could have told him that, and I am no physician.

"Wonderful," I muttered…my voice sounded very odd even to my own ears and bounced with a thud off the inside of my head, as if I were speaking into a drum full of soggy cotton wool.

"Are you cold or hot?" he asked softly, putting the thermometer aside and focusing on my face.

I attempted to decide and found I actually could not…my brain was refusing to take stock of my surroundings in any semblance of clarity.

"Don't know," I said thickly, suddenly coughing as a wet dust cloud seemed to appear out of nowhere in my lungs, choking off my breathing. _That hurts. A lot._

A voice cut through the grey fog and a hand patted my back soundly…wait, I did not remember sitting up... "Easy…easy, man…you'll burst a blood vessel like that."

Ugh. I did not want to try that particular course of action any time soon – the sneezing was definitely preferable to a lung working like a broken fire-bellows. Or _both_ lungs, I could not tell at the moment, nor did I much care. About anything.

Finally the cloud vanished from my brain and I realised I was being settled back down onto the pillows with surprising gentleness, all things considered. Why was it so hot in here?

The Doctor started to say something, only to lift his head and look at our landlady who had appeared suddenly in the doorway. He left my side to speak with her, and after glancing once at me then exited the room without another word. Moments later I heard voices from the sitting room just outside, snatches of which were audible when the conversation rose.

"…indisposed, I'm sorry."

"Dreadfully important…cannot wait…tomorrow…what do you mean I _can't_ see him?"

"Just that. …no visitors until…"

"…not going to stop me…now _look, _Doctor! This is urgent!"

This last I heard quite clearly, due to the fact that the idiot's bellowing could have been heard all the way in Exeter by a half-deaf grandfather.

"Doctor, you'd better show him in or we shall never be rid of him otherwise," I called as loudly as I could, though my voice was ridiculously hoarse and the effort threw me into another coughing fit.

I raised an eyebrow at hearing my fellow-lodger's response – and I thought my old landlady used choice words when frustrated! – but a moment later the ferret-features of Scotland Yard's Finest Blunderer appeared to further nauseate my upset stomach. He pushed his way past the scowling soldier to look at me with more amusement than sympathy.

"Passed your landlady on the stairs, Holmes – looks like you'll be havin' baked tuna for a few suppers yet," said he with a wicked smirk.

A rising nausea bubbled hotly in the back of my throat, which I quashed only with immense difficulty, maintaining my cool exteriour although the room was boiling hot and not exactly remaining in one place.

"Doctor John Watson, Mr. Giles Lestrade," I managed to mutter the courtesy before sneezing again, sending the dear Inspector dodging for cover. I dearly hoped the man would contract whatever I had got, for vengeance would be a small price to pay for a miserable few days in bed.

"We _met_," the Doctor replied darkly, shooting a rather formidable glare at the unsuspecting policeman's back. Now _this_ could shape up to be very interesting, should I allow the two of them to really converse with each other over my stuffy head...free entertainment, at any rate…

"Mr. Holmes, this is important, it's about Wilder," Lestrade intoned in a confidential whisper.

"Then spit it out, man!" I snapped, wishing my head would either clear enough to be lucid or muddle enough that I would be useless and the man would leave me alone.

Lestrade's beady eyes glanced dubiously at the imposing figure leaning threateningly against my bedpost. Wait, since when did a half-crippled, haunted war veteran become imposing to my eyes? I must indeed be ill…

"Doctor, if you would give us five minutes I promise you we shall not take longer than that to conduct our business," I sighed wearily, and it was only after a dark scowl that my newest acquaintance left the room to obligingly wait outside.

The Inspector proceeded to tell me that a loose end had yet to be wrapped up if they were to charge Wilder with the actual murder of the dockhand besides the sabotage of the three warehouses. After I gave him the rest of the facts I had forgotten about in the tuna-crate excitement, he was shown out (none too kindly) by my resident physician, who then returned in a rather endearing fit of temper – another item he was not exaggerating about in his introduction to me, apparently, for his bull-pup was about to choke to death on its own leash.

_Note to self: __Not__ a pleasant fellow when he does not get his own way, at least regarding medical matters._

"Who the devil does he think he is?" the Doctor fumed, slamming a bottle of tonic down with more force than was really necessary.

"A client of mine," I explained shortly before too quick a breath caused me to cough again.

"Then you should go into a business with a more courteous clientele," I believe is what he muttered under his breath, but I cannot be certain as at that point in the evening my memory grows a bit hazy.

I remember vague bits and pieces of the next two days and three nights – I only found out it _was_ that long this morning when I got up and saw the date on the _Times_ – but nothing definite: mere confused, fuzzy images and sensations of burning heat and chilly bedclothes and figures looming over me in semi-darkness. Evidently, judging from the way Mrs. Hudson was filled with apparent jubilation to see me up and moving about, I had been quite disgustingly ill.

And judging from the fact that, when I did finally awaken this morning (_sans_ a congested head and feeling more like a human being than one of those blasted tuna-fishes), I found the Doctor asleep in a chair beside my bed, it appeared to have been a rather nasty strain of chills and heaven only knew what else.

I wondered at first what calibre of physician would fall asleep over a sickbed watch, until just now when I picked up the paper and saw that this was the third day since I had returned home ill – it was of no wonder, then; Watson barely got enough rest as it was, without my becoming a burden on top of all his own baggage. Three days?

No doubt he will have an absolute _fit_ when he awakens to find I sneaked round him in the dark, snatched a dressing-gown, and rang for breakfast without his leave. I actually look forward to the coming confrontation…

…Though I had hoped it would be after breakfast, it appears it will be sooner; for I just heard a thud and an exclamation from my bedroom.

More later, if I am still able to write after said confrontation.


	12. January 17, 1881

_January 17, 1881_

_8:55 p.m._

I see I left off this somewhat confusing and desultory narrative at the point of arming myself for battle against what I anticipated to be a thoroughly outraged physician, if his ridiculous protectiveness of my health towards Lestrade is any indication of his usual bedside manner.

True to my supposition, he came storming out of my bedroom, his face flushed with temper. It was only after our confrontation that the colour faded to reveal the darkness of the circles under his eyes, no doubt from little or no sleep for the last few days.

"What in _blazes_ do you think you're doing?" he bellowed, in far fiercer a tone than I should ever have expected upon my first meeting the mild-mannered fellow two weeks ago. Hidden fires, indeed.

"Coffee?" I offered brightly, and (yes, I freely admit it) with no little amount of glee. Being annoying could be _such_ good entertainment sometimes, and one sure way of doing it was to remain calm when one's opponent was rapidly approaching boiling point. Which he was.

"Holmes!"

"Do sit down, Doctor, before you burst a blood vessel," I said dryly, pouring him a cup of coffee, adding sugar as I had observed he drank it usually, and shoving it across the table as a peace offering.

He drank it, but not apparently as a peace offering, since as soon as it had vanished he started up again, fueled afresh by the sudden rush of energy.

"You've only been out of that fever for…what time is it, nine forty-five? Only six hours!"

"Doctor, I assure you I am feeling perfectly fine…" I trailed off as a violent sneeze manifested itself mockingly to belie my words.

The Doctor steadied the rattling china with one hand, not even pausing. "Just because you _feel_ all right does not mean you are well yet. You've still got a horrible cough, and if you don't watch it that could develop into pneumonia, specially in this weather."

"If it will make you lay off me, Doctor, I promise not to leave the house today," I said in some annoyance. It was Saturday, and I would not have been able to do anything at the hospital or Museum anyway. Besides, though I was firmly resentful of any and all medical attention, I was not stupid – I knew I was not quite up to my full strength as of yet.

His growl of a reply was halted in its tracks by the arrival of Mrs. Hudson with our breakfast – somehow she had either divined that the Doctor would awaken in time to have it, or else she had intended me to eat the entire thing, which there was no possible way I could have. The woman's greatest fault seems to be continually attempting to stuff her boarders to the bursting point. Murder by over-feeding is rare, but it _has_ happened, though usually to a spoilt pet rather than a lodger. Would be a fascinating topic for a monograph, though…

The moment the door closed, I nearly laughed aloud and in consequence lodged a sharp-cornered piece of toast in my throat when my fellow-lodger took up exactly where he had left off, as if he had never been interrupted.

"And you shan't be going anywhere tomorrow, either, Holmes – the wind's picking up and it's going to storm," said he sternly, venting his obvious frustration with my self-sufficiency on the poor innocent sausage cringing upon his plate.

I blinked. "Doctor, you did not mention among your many…_attributes_…that you were also a weather-forecaster. Pass the marmalade."

He snorted and stabbed the sausage again, pushing the jam-pot across the table with his other hand. "This leg of mine's a more reliable barometer than any ship's instrument. Be careful about eating too many of those sausages, your stomach and throat may still be a bit sensitive for a while."

From the way he was going at that particular activity, that did not appear to present an eventual problem for my own appetite. I briefly wondered if perhaps he had said it for that very reason, so that I would leave them alone and so leave more for him…no, surely not. The man could not be that devious and not be obvious about it.

Or could he? I eyed the fellow with a newfound wariness as I swallowed the remainder of my toast.

"Pass the eggs? Did I have any visitors whilst I was ill, did Lestrade come by at all, and did he leave a message for me? What's been happening the last three days?"

"Here. No, no, and yes, there's a telegram on your desk I believe," the man replied, putting down his fork to use the right hand and pass me the platter as he continued.

"Nothing of great note. Storm blew itself out and the ice melted for the most part while you were out, and the snow's melting into slush – nearly gone now. Nothing of note happened while you were ill, though I wouldn't really know as I haven't been out-of-doors in three days," he offered, spearing the last sausage and slicing it quickly and evenly with the methodical air of a medical man. It looked too much altogether like dissecting for my taste, and I hastily made short work of the remaining eggs before he attacked them as well.

Mrs. Hudson, needless to say, was absolutely delighted that not a shred of breakfast (save the piece of toast I had dropped on the floor and was now adhering nicely to the carpet via orange marmalade) remained. Apparently it does not take much to please the woman, for she was still beaming as she took the tray off down the stairs.

I stretched absently and flopped down in my chair, lighting my pipe for the first time in six days – thoroughly satisfying; I had dearly missed its comfort while becoming too intimately acquainted with a batch of tuna-fishes. The Doctor gave several disapproving mutters and more than one dark glower as I coughed (not from the fumes, but it was the theory of the thing apparently), before he finally yawned so wide his head nearly split in half. With a murmured apology, he excused himself and limped up the stairs, for some sleep in a real bed I assumed.

I spent the morning going through six days' worth of post and newspapers, which task actually carried over in to the afternoon, so deep was the pile.

A startled choking noise yanked me out of my concentration in sorting articles around half-past four, and I glanced up in some surprise. My brain was on a very interesting advertisement involving trained Siamese cats and a missing scarlet macaw from the Zoological Gardens, and so it was a moment or two before I registered a completely incredulous look on the Doctor's sleepy face, which was now coming abruptly wide-awake.

"What in heaven's name, Holmes!" he gasped, looking about at the room.

What?

I moved my own gaze around, finally snapping back into reality, and then realised. Oh. I had made rather a mess of the place, had I not?

Or, more accurately, I had made a _dreadful_ mess of the place. Honestly, I could not locate the furniture under the blizzard of paper.

And apparently, judging from my fellow-lodger's scandalised expression, he had never seen something of the sort invade a room before. He had better grow accustomed to the fact, as I have no intention of keeping my files contained if I need space to work.

"Erm…" I fumbled for an explanation that was not quite as arrogant-sounding as that last statement I just wrote here. "I did neglect to mention that I am a trifle messy when sorting articles I wish to keep and so on, if I get behind in my work for more than a day or two?"

"You _did_ neglect to mention that, yes," the Doctor replied dryly, stepping carefully over a pile of newsprint to his armchair, which was now covered in envelopes and letters. "May I move these, or do you need them here specifically for some reason?"

I blinked in astonishment – that was all he was going to say about the matter? Even though his own chair had been covered, he was going to actually _ask_ if he could sit there? Any normal man would have shoved the things off the furniture, not caring if they went in the fire or not, and quite possibly lost his temper with my hasty appropriation of more than my share of the carpet.

"Erm…no, Doctor. Here, let me take them," I found myself nearly stammering in my shock, hastily removing the papers from both his seat and, after a moment's thought, his desk.

He lit his pipe with a methodical slowness and puffed twice before glancing once more at the mess. "Do you need help with that?"

"No," I replied cheerfully, tossing a discarded paper over my shoulder. "I shan't be much longer about it. Hand me that scrap-book, would you? The one you're resting your foot on."

He coloured and glanced down apologetically. "Sorry, I…"

"Yes, I know you couldn't see it under the papers," I chuckled, not offended, for it had been buried under the pile I was going to throw in the fire, obviously shredded and clipped beyond repair; he had taken the rustling heap to be waste paper.

Suddenly an unaccountable coughing fit attacked my lungs and for a minute I was bent over the book in my hand, doing my utmost it felt to turn myself inside out. I was (and am, for since I have been scribbling this I have sneezed four times, causing my pen to skitter messily across the page) growing thoroughly weary of being ill.

"I'm terribly sorry!" I vaguely heard the Doctor gasp above my hacking as I finished, and I looked up through clearing vision to see him hastily extinguishing his pipe. "I completely forgot –"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Doctor, it wasn't that," I rasped in amusement, getting up for a drink of water. A mountain of paper slid off my lap to scatter everywhere, and he reached out to prevent a file folder from sailing merrily into the fireplace.

The look of relief that flooded his face at my reassurance that the smoke had nothing to do with my coughing fit was quite amusing to me, but still he did not relight the pipe. He really is the strangest fellow.

"You keep an awful lot of data on hand, don't you? Why on earth would you be interested in saving all these old news clippings?"

It was an obvious angling by a practised fisherman, but I was not about to willingly bite the bait. "It is my business," I replied mysteriously, very much enjoying the stymied thoughtfulness upon his face.

He was of course too polite to ask further questions, and at any rate he did not have the chance as Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to bustle in to ask about supper, studiously avoiding any mention of tuna, trout, or mackerel.

What transpired when _she_ saw the state of the room is not a subject fit for the pages of even a private journal. Suffice it to say the Doctor has a good deal more patience. And a slightly kinder vocabulary.

And so I have received the first of what I suspect will be many threats of eviction. Perhaps I should be keeping track; I might very well set a record in that area.


	13. January 20, 1881

_January 20, 1881_

_2:45 a.m._

Yes, 2:45 a.m. It has been a rather…interesting day and night, after such a non-noteworthy weekend. Is non-noteworthy a word? I shall have to ask the Doctor, for he appears to be the resident expert on etymology. Regardless, it is a word _now_ (I just invented it, and if the Bard can do it then I have the right to as well), and my weekend was so non-noteworthy that in itself was noteworthy.

Sunday I spent trapped like a caged rabbit (snowshoe, no doubt, in honour of the weather) yet again in this house while a snowstorm raged outside. Thankfully, the Doctor slept a good portion of the day, leaving me free to follow my own devices without the stress of having to keep up polite conversation.

Unfortunately, I had no such devices to follow. By late Saturday night I had cleaned up my mess of papers, and Sunday broke snowy and blowy and altogether boring in the extreme. Were it not for the fact that it really was literally too cold to go abroad when I was still coughing, I should have tramped the city just to practice my skills of observation and deduction if nothing else, so intense was my _ennui_. How I hate having absolutely nothing to occupy my mind or body! An imagination such as mine can implode from racing about with no productivity.

In consequence, I remember next to nothing about the entire day, seeing as I spent the majority of it on the couch in the sitting room, memorising the cracks in the ceiling, dozing, and occasionally scraping chords on my violin.

I scarcely remember moving much in that time, and as I woke Monday morning in the same position I had been in the day before, the logical deduction would be that I did not move at all. Regardless, I was not about to remain indoors for yet another whole day, blizzard or no blizzard. But the snow had stopped and the wind had died down, and before breakfast was concluded a disgustingly cheerful beam of yellow light was streaming through the sitting-room window.

The Doctor made a brief appearance not long after I had begun, merely to snatch a cup of tea and a scone, warn me tersely to bundle up if I were planning on going out today, and then limp back to his bedroom with an extra blanket dragging behind him like a fallen banner.

He had been shorter than normal with me (I have already observed that he is definitely _not_ a morning person; something must have woken him before his accustomed rising time for it was only half-past eight), and it took no great deduction to see he neither slept well nor was feeling well – it took him closer to forty seconds to ascend the steps to his room, whereas it normally only takes twenty-two.

I was about to depart after breakfast (I had only just that morning found that I still had those Funke articles to return to the Museum archives, though by now they probably have given up on them and in fact have no idea of my new address, so I might get away with keeping them permanently) but received a visitor to halt my leaving.

A client - _thank heaven_! - for the cases had been few (and fishy) since my move. It was a simple problem by the sound of it, involving an extortion (the term those types used was a 'protection racket') ring down at the docks that I had been eyeing for some time. This fellow, the owner of a certain tobacco store fronting for an illegal gambling den, wanted to employ me as a table-waiter of the evenings until I could gain the opportunity to shut down the operation that was robbing him of over a third of his ill-gotten gains (the reason he had not gone to the police, naturally).

High risk, but even higher pay (whatever its vices, gambling was indeed a lucrative business and who was I to throw stones at it?), and I immediately jumped at the offer. I really think, especially after the events of tonight, that I shall only have to remain on the job for two more days at most; a fact I regret, as it has been a most rewarding business and has assured my rent for the next two weeks already.

But I am jumping ahead in my tale, an unforgivably illogical habit. I went at once to the shop with the fellow (I was completely unimpressed, for they sold nothing stronger than the stuff Mrs. Dudley's late husband smoked, which is to say incredibly weak) to learn the lay of the place and to get the details straight, together with the usual promises to not attack the gambling den in return for my payment, etc., etc.

I am lucky enough to not have been cursed with many morals when it comes to this business – payment is payment, a case is a case, and if I have to bend a few of the British laws to live and succeed in my business then so be it. I am a law unto myself and no one else, and who is to stop me? Certainly not the law itself, as I am far too intelligent to ever be caught by it.

Plus I have a brother who actually takes up a goodly portion of the government (mentally _and_ physically). That does help matters if I were to land myself in the dock for some trivial technical violation.

Besides, the greater a network of contacts and informants I can establish now, before my name becomes famous, the better off I shall be in future – as it will be a hundredfold harder to get decent illicit help once I am so well-known. And I _will_ be well-known.

I returned to Baker Street for tea, which I took alone as the Doctor was nowhere to be seen, and then began to prepare for my night's work. Thankfully the fact that no one as of yet in this city knows who I am (besides that one amateur boxer and his less than desirable mistress) negated my having to endure the discomfort of a disguise, though I did comb my hair differently and adopt a less belligerent (that is to say, only slightly antagonistic) attitude than I am accustomed to greeting people with.

The Doctor did decide to join me for a hasty supper, looking rather out-of-sorts despite the roast which was cooked to perfection. The meal was a silent affair, for I was a trifle nervous about my new case and certainly not about to volunteer any information on the matter to him (the man is insatiably curious when once he gets his claws into a good story), and he obviously was rather peevish and seemed to be the type that knew when he was out-of-sorts to keep his mouth closed rather than risk offending people. Smart man.

After the dishes had been cleared, he grabbed a yellow-backed novel and settled down before the fire whilst I selected my heaviest stick in preparation for the night's events. I had all but beaten the cold I had been suffering from, though the excursion of earlier had made my cough a bit worse. I waved off an offer of some foul-tasting syrup from the Doctor and hastily ran out the door before he could start into another medical lecture on the dangers of relapse, etc., etc.

I will not here record the rather boring details of my night as a drinks waiter in that den of iniquity. Suffice it to say the task ended up being considerably easier (and more monetarily rewarding the more alcohol the men consumed) than I had anticipated and the extortion leader is certainly going down within the week. More's the pity, as it is rather easy money due to my client's rigged gaming tables. Lestrade will have a field day with this set of arrests, I'll wager.

No pun intended.

I returned home a little after eleven tonight, tired but five pounds the richer in addition to my tips for the evening. I am, as I may have said here before, not accustomed to late nights but I suspect as my practice grows that in all probability will change, and so I am endeavouring to gradually acclimate myself to being flexible and needing little or no sleep in order to function. It is merely a principle of brain over comfort, for any obstacle can be overcome with the proper effort of mental detachment, for which I pride myself.

I sat down in my chair before the dying fire for a moment to warm up a bit before heading into my chilly bedroom. For a few minutes only the faint snapping of dying embers filled the darkened room, lulling me into a sense of warm drowsiness. Then suddenly the gas jet by the door snapped loudly into a soft glow, startling me out of my dozing.

And also startling the man who had turned it on; he nearly dropped the candle and set the carpet afire, jumping back with a surprised cry as I whipped round in my chair to look at him.

"Good heavens, you startled me," he stammered the obvious, hastily setting the candle down on the table – but not before I saw how the tiny flame was shaking due to an unsteady hand. Now that I could see him in the light, he was dreadfully pale under that tan as well. Hmm.

"Likewise, Doctor," I returned cautiously as he walked slowly into the room, clad in a dressing-gown over his nightclothes. "I was out rather late and decided to have a smoke before turning in for the night. Having trouble sleeping, then?"

His back was to me as he poured himself a drink, and at my words he stiffened suddenly and set the decanter down with a shaky clatter. "What?"

"Oh, come now, Doctor. In my experience two things there be that will drive a man from his bed at this witching hour – illness, and a poor choice of dreaming material," I said lightly, drawing slowly on my pipe and striving to keep all traces of pity from my voice as he would have found that to be highly insulting. "As you are, while still recovering, not obviously ill at the moment, the natural conclusion would be the latter affliction."

He gulped down whatever stiff drink he had poured before turning back to me. "Not the most stunning deduction you've favoured me with thus far in our acquaintance, but a correct one," he said quietly, and though the words were light as mine had been there was no levity in his eyes, haunted even more so than I had seen yet.

I had demons enough of my own to fight – I had no wish to imagine what a war veteran's nightmares might entail.

When demons appeared to disrupt my own slumber, the only weapon I knew of to fight them was that of the universal language, which indeed did have charms to soothe all manner of savage creatures, imaginary or no. But were I to offer aid, even in the form of a song, no doubt it would be brusquely rejected as an act of pity.

Nothing of the kind – I actually needed him to sleep, as there would be no possible way I could if he were prowling about in the sitting room all night long, keeping me awake. All _morning_, rather, as it was after midnight. Regardless, I had to have my sleep and dashed if I was going to let a trivial thing like his pride deprive me of it!

I therefore did not ask permission but merely picked up my well-loved instrument and began improvising, as if I had myself just woken from a terror. So lost was I in the intricacies of composition that I barely registered him sitting down opposite me in his armchair, leaning back with his legs propped up on the ottoman and his eyes slowly closing.

Hah. Five minutes and sixteen seconds, that was all it took. Now I could sleep as well, without fear of being disturbed by a restless veteran marching about all night.

I was about to turn the lights off when the fire finally died with a small hiss. Blast, it would be freezing in here well before morning if I were to let him sleep like that with no warmth. I debated for a full three minutes whether to wake him before deciding against it – he might not even wish to sleep in that bedroom upstairs anyway if ghosts were lingering around it.

My eyes lit on the afghan folded upon the couch, and I grinned at the ease of the solution.

In my experience, medicos made the worst possible patients under the sun, and I had not the time nor the patience to deal with a sniffling, coughing physician _and_ a gambling/extortion gang in the same week.

Turnabout was fair play, after all. Only _I_ did a more thorough job of covering him than he had done with me the other night.


	14. January 20, 1881, Part II

_January 20, 1881_

_2:35 p.m._

Because of my late night, I decided I retained the right to sleep until after nine this morning, and when I had entered the sitting room I found the Doctor still asleep in his chair (I'd no idea the man snored like that!), though Mrs. Hudson had had the goodness to light a fire at some point in the morning to stave off pneumonia.

I rang for breakfast and then began to stuff my pipe with the leftovers from the previous day's smokes…an old habit, birthed from a childhood in which nothing was ever wasted lest the Deity Above frown upon us for profligacy, and later aggravated from an irregular-at-best income – I could ill afford to be extravagant in past times and why change a habit now that I could?

I debated whether or not to wake the Doctor for breakfast. I had no wish to take my life in my hands in such a manner this early in the day; violence soon preceding and succeeding a meal is never a pleasant pastime. As it transpired, I was not forced to do so as the smell of Mrs. Hudson's ham and soft-boiled eggs awakened him for me. I was drinking my third cup of coffee by the time he blinked and sat up with a grimace, rubbing the back of his neck to rid himself of the stiffness that comes of sitting half-reclined in an armchair for the better part of nine hours.

"Good morning," I ventured, thoroughly proud of myself for instigating the conversation for once; definitely a major accomplishment.

"Is it?" he muttered dubiously, rising with some stiffness and stretching.

I hid a grin at his petulance in my coffee-cup, shoving the pot and the sugar-bowl within easy reach of the other chair before going back to my _Pall Mall_. I heard a creak as the chair took his weight, a slosh as a rather sloppy cup of coffee was poured, and then two small plops as his standard two sugars went into the mix.

It could not have been seven and a half seconds later that he was pouring a second cup, and I eyed him over the criminal news with some wariness – unusual behaviour was disconcerting in anyone, but specially in someone who had only just begun to settle into staid habits. The Doctor invariably drank the first cup slowly and only started the second with his meal.

He caught my look half-way through gulping the drink, and his eyes widened questioningly over the rim of the cup, obviously unaware that he was breaking a fixed habit and that broken habits disturbed my ordered mind to no end.

I hastily covered my ensuing embarrassment by proffering the platter of ham, to which he helped himself while glancing over my head at the window and those infernal twittering winter songbirds, which were putting forth their absolute best effort to kill my appetite.

"Looks like the storm's gone for a while at least," he remarked, his eyes sparkling brightly in the sunlight reflecting off the polished silverware.

I bit back a "Stunning deduction, Doctor" and merely nodded absently, concentrating on the recurring theme in the news of birds suddenly coming up missing from various aviaries across the city. I wonder if Lestrade has made the connection between those trained cats and the incidents; I must ask him about the matter when I see him tomorrow or the day after, whenever we discuss the formalities of the upcoming extortion arrests…

A bright, cheery beam of sunlight suddenly hit the sterling coffee-pot and blinded me momentarily, causing me to yelp and drop the paper, putting a hand to my eyes as spots danced merrily in front of them.

The Doctor hastily shoved the thing out of the shaft of light, trying politely not to laugh at my (no doubt) disgruntled face. "Unusual to see the sun so bright this time of year," he said with some excitement, looking out the window. "I believe it might even be mild enough for me to take a walk later!"

I wondered briefly at the man's cursed enthusiasm, until I realised he had indeed been trapped indoors for over a week now – no doubt he was unable to step foot outside if the weather were even typically windy or cold. This warm snap was a good thing, then, for I knew better than anyone else that enforced imprisonment due to circumstances beyond one's control was worse than a jail sentence to an active personality.

I glanced at my watch and then downed the rest of my coffee in one gulp, scalding my tongue for the second time that morning, confound it.

"If you'll excuse me, Doctor, I do have some errands to run, unfortunately," I said, rising from the table with an air of relief; no more conversation, one more meal dealt with satisfactorily, and no verbal mishaps.

"Oh?"

Did I detect an ever-so-slight hint of wistfulness in that one simple interjection? Probably; he no doubt wished to have some sort of purpose in getting up to face another day and was duly envious of my active (if somewhat irregular) lifestyle.

"Yes." I have no idea why I continued the conversation, but for some unaccountable and thoroughly illogical reason other than common courtesy, I did. "I'm afraid I make a habit of keeping things out past the due date from the British Museum's library."

He laughed and nodded understandingly. "As a child, I never took my books back until they sent someone after them – I was still reading them for the fourth or fifth time usually when that occurred," he chuckled, finishing his egg and grinning at me, full of apparent good-humour at the thought of getting out today.

I nearly laughed myself at his words, remembering more than one occasion when Mycroft would be given the task of taking me back to the town library or book-shop and forcing me to pay for the damage I had caused to my own volumes. Perhaps that was why he would never allow me to touch his things; I invariably spilt chemicals or tea on them, or used the blank pages for notes or litmus paper, or performed practice physics calculations by dropping them off the stable roof…

"You know," the Doctor said suddenly, his eyes alight with eagerness, "I've not been to the Museum since my return to London, and I'd love to see the place again – would you like me to return the books for you?"

"Well, I need to do some research on a different topic while there, Doctor," I said slowly, "but thank you just the same."

My pride at saying the properly courteous response (I was learning, slowly, due to having to constantly practice my social skills on an almost hourly basis) was doused immediately by the crestfallen look that flitted across his face as he nodded and began to finish his coffee.

For a moment I stood, fixing my tie in the mantel mirror and attempting to deduce why my decline had received such a strange reaction. If he wanted to go to the Museum, why not go? Why have to have a purpose in rambling about the capital – being alone with nothing in particular to do was half the enjoyment of the city, was it not?

He was, as I had already seen, the type that hated to be bored – the type of fellow that must have a purpose in life or else go mad. Somewhat like myself, save that if I cannot find a purpose easily I simply make my own by whatever means necessary, legal or illegal, courteous to society or no.

Actually, he struck me as the type that while he enjoyed an easy life (though from what I had thus far observed, he was anything but incurably lazy as he had so described himself), he needed a purpose for getting up in the morning besides consuming breakfast and whiling away the hours with the odd novel.

In addition to this, I personally had no wish to deal with a cranky, bored army veteran upon my return later in the morning; I had a few hundred other things to occupy my mind than that. He _needed_ to get out so that he would retain this unusually good humour, and if he did not want to go alone there was one rather simple solution, so long as it did not go out of hand.

"You're more than welcome to come along, Doctor, if you like," I said carelessly, eyeing him out of my peripheral vision to see his reaction.

I was not disappointed, for the light suddenly re-entered his eyes and he looked eagerly up at me with the air of a child preparing for a holiday outing. "Are you certain you wouldn't mind?"

"Not if you do not mind my leaving you upon arrival to do some rather out-of-the way research that requires absolute silence and solitude," I said, allowing my light tone to compensate for the pointed warning that I did not want him tagging along with me _all day_.

"No, no, of course not," he replied eagerly, scrambling up from the table so quickly he nearly dumped over the egg-warmers. "But it'll take me a few minutes to get ready…"

"They do not open until ten, at any rate, Doctor. There is no rush, but do a chap a favour and don't dawdle unnecessarily," I shot airily over my shoulder, disappearing into my bedroom to locate those elusive articles and anything else I might have in my possession that actually did not belong there.

I heard his footsteps ascending the stairs – he _must _be feeling better, for that only took him eighteen seconds – and then various slams and thuds emanating from his bedroom.

I grinned to myself, for he looked for all the world like a child about to go visit the Zoo for the first time. I had not realised just how trapped he really was, with the weather as it had been lately, and for some strange reason it had delighted him to no end that I had offered to allow him to accompany me.

Could it be that he is the type that actually _enjoys_ the company of a fellow man, no matter who that person is - even a socially clueless, eccentric (Yes, eccentric – it is stupidity, not innocence, to not be capable of identifying one's own idiosyncrasies) private detective?

I hope he does not expect this singular event to become a regular habit, as the very idea of habitually taking along another person to disrupt my thoughts with conversation and follow annoyingly at my shoulder everywhere is so abhorrent I could scream at the bare thought.

I let him tag along merely because, though I am no physician, I do know it is not healthy to remain inside a house for longer than a week without seeing the outside world without glass and brick between. I may enjoy – nay, _demand_ and require – my solitude, but even I like to know that somewhere out there is a teeming metropolis of people going about their petty business, well within my eyesight if I should so choose to spend my time in observing them. Granted, nearer distance than within eyesight is definitely not necessary (or pleasant) unless said persons bring me a problem to solve.

My rather too-cheerful fellow-lodger was ready within seven minutes to leave the house; an impressive feat, as even I cannot make myself presentable in under ten minutes and twenty-three seconds. I had called a cab, for had I been forced to keep his slow pace it would have taken us until luncheon to reach the place. After he had spent the first seven and one-half minutes gazing about at the disgustingly bright sunshine and the grey melting slush with the satisfied air for a true dreamer, he glanced at the stack of portfolios I held.

"Otto Funke – research for your blood-test, then?" he read with interest.

I nodded in appreciation – the man has a good memory at least, and also he appears to be well-read on the most obscure medical topics, even bizarre ones such as Charcot's studies about _hysteria_ and its treatments. "Quite. His research was vital to my experiments and subsequent success."

"It's been two weeks - when are you going to reveal your test to the world? Or is that a rude question…it really isn't any of my business," he continued apologetically, his honest face flushing in some embarrassment.

I found this to be highly amusing and smiled without intending to as I responded. "I've really no idea, Doctor. To be quite honest, I have not given the matter much thought, being occupied with other things." _Like being packed in a crate of tuna-fishes, for instance._

"It appears to be more a police matter than a medical discovery," my companion replied thoughtfully, but I instantly detected something else in his tone that he was obviously trying to obscure and failing; he is too ridiculously honest to prevaricate successfully.

"Yes…" I agreed warily.

"You're more interested in legal matters than medical, then – Stamford seemed to think you were going in for chemistry or medicine, but..."

"Stamford tends to ruminate a good many randomly selected ideas that have no basis in fact," I replied dryly, neatly sidestepping the too-openly fishing question.

I only barely repressed the grin that came unbidden to my face at his patently obvious angling. My strange methods, scattered immense knowledge, and odd habits had finally attracted the attention of this fellow (who was more sharp than he appeared at first glance) – no doubt, being trapped indoors as he had been for over a week now, his obviously active imagination was having a field-day with my eccentric life. I found the fact more entertaining than annoying, for I knew I was in no danger of his actually deducing the truth; and what fun to keep him guessing for however long the game would last!

He subsided into silence a few moments after our exchange, no doubt retreating from the field but merely to regroup, not surrender. I grinned and settled back in the seat, mentally preparing for his next sortie and wondering how long it would be before I should actually reveal what exactly I was to London, and indeed the world – if not now, then as soon as my name became known.

But as I have been scribbling this in an alcove of the Museum, and the nearby guide has been eyeing me suspiciously for the last half-hour, I shall now stop my narrative and finish up my research before leaving. But I did want to get some of this down at least, as I have no idea what my schedule will be like later, what with the Doctor and I going to dinner, and then my resuming my lucrative night job in the gambling-den.

More on these subjects tomorrow.


	15. January 21, 1881

_January 21, 1881_

_8:17 p.m._

Were it not for the fact that Mycroft would have me assassinated for the good of the country, I would seriously consider taking up a permanent position in the illicit gambling business, for I have made better money these last two nights just serving drinks than I have made the first two weeks of the New Year. Pity the crib has to end so soon – I discovered enough information last night simply by childishly easy eavesdropping that the gang should be rounded and broken up within the week at the latest.

The extortion ring appears to be led by a fellow named Hubert Bruner, of diminutive stature but packing more menace into that five-foot five inches than many men acquire in their lifetimes. He hires a full-time bodyguard, a Neolithic giant whose name I could not gather from the conversation without drawing near enough to arouse instant suspicion, but from all accounts a brute whom I do not want to cross should Bruner find out who (and what) I am. I must ensure I am not suspected when the fellow comes calling tonight to check on one of his main money-pools.

In addition to this other affair, I received a client today as well (evidently the new address is attracting a better class of cases, now that clients no longer have to slip carefully past a snapping Beatrice Dudley to reach me), a young lady who wished my aid in recovering a lost bird. Granted, this is a bit below my station, but the fact that the bird in question was a cockatoo and not the average canary arrested my attention, and when the woman had done with her tale it was obvious that the perpetrator was the same Siamese cat-trainer I was attempting to connect with these bird thefts all across the city.

Given the unfortunate fate of the aforementioned fowls, I do not hold out much hope of being able to recover dear Bertie (Women! They bestow upon their pets the most absurd names), but a case is a case, and I shall have to go pick Lestrade's brain Monday when I see him at the inquest (for the man who stuffed me in a tuna-crate, a testimony which I shall take great pleasure in giving).

Something highly annoying did happen today regarding this last case, however. I had made an appointment to see the young lady in question tomorrow afternoon, to view the bird's cage placement in relation to the window and so on; when she called today I was on my way out the door to go inform Mycroft of my new address (after a fortnight, it only now occurs to me that it might be a prudent idea to tell him I have moved up in the world – not that he really cares so long as I am not hanging about wheedling money from him) and so did not have the time to go with her at the moment.

This is not the annoying item; I have attacked a tangent again. Back to this afternoon. I had scribbled the woman's address and the time of the appointment on my shirt-cuff, not having any paper handy (another habit carried over from childhood; the wash-maid always despised seeing my calculus formulae scribbled on my sleeve). Only after luncheon today I spilt lemon juice on my shirt-front and so without thinking removed the clothing in question and left it for Mrs. Hudson to clean with the rest of the Saturday laundry…which the good woman did, unfortunately a little too thoroughly. I now have no idea when and where I am supposed to meet my client, and I was not listening closely enough to the petty little problem at the time to remember off-hand.

Sometimes I wonder if I might not be well-advised to employ a secretary or some such; I am always forgetting to write down appointments and pertinent details of cases, and were I not gifted with an extraordinary memory (when I concentrate upon hearing things, that is) I should have missed many an appointment and many an important clue due to my absent-mindedness. When I am at my full concentration my memory is unmatched by anyone save my brother…when I am only half-concentrating…there's the rub. And as luck would have it, Bertie only occupied about one-third of my thought processes at the moment in question.

In consequence, I was forced to go through the dust bin to find the lady's discarded calling card, and I somehow think the appointment time was around one or one-thirty – but I shall have to send a telegram tonight to ascertain that rather important fact. How exasperating…no doubt she will think me utterly incompetent.

On a more professional note, I made some decent headway with my notes upon those poisons I have been dabbling with the last few days – I am contemplating a monograph upon the subject, for the average toxicology texts available discuss only the most common ones. Most physicians can easily identify chloroform or arsenic poisoning, but rarely will you find an average medical man who can identify the symptoms of aconite or carbon monoxide poisoning at a ready glance or verbal description.

Although, to my surprise, when I tested this theory upon the resident physician, he promptly identified both and also those of belladonna, mercury, and a dozen or so others that I fired off the top of my head at him – and the man thinks _my_ knowledge to be unusually out of the way and bizarre.

Whilst I am on this topic, we had a rather interesting discussion over dinner yesterday. I met the Doctor at the front of the Museum shortly after I was nearly forcibly removed from the Archives for touching old manuscripts despite the sign clearly stating they were not to be removed…as if a few fingerprints were really going to harm the old documents!

Honestly – society absolutely disgusts me at times. We treasure dusty old pieces of parchment, insuring them for hundreds of pounds, and yet allow good men like the one I live with to lose or nearly lose their lives or sanity in atrocities like what is occurring in the East right now. Sometimes I rather think most of humankind hold possessions, historical or no, of higher value than human lives. Disgraceful. I most definitely could not be my brother, holding the fate of nations in my hand and brain – I should go mad with the responsibility and indecision.

But enough of philosophy so soon after dinner. Yesterday, then. We met, as I said, and then went to a nearby café for a quick supper before I headed over to the East End for my night engagement and he back to Baker Street. I could tell the day's exercise had exhausted him completely, as he was nearly asleep by the time we received our coffee, but his optimistic mood at having gotten outside of the flat still shone through.

I had spent the entire walk to the restaurant compiling a mental list of questions I could ask him that would not be personal or prying, but that would keep that awkward mealtime silence from settling over us as it so usually did – surely if I planned questions ahead of time, that might negate my having to think of converse off the top of my head. The Doctor need never know that my forced interest was as carefully scripted as any theatrical production.

And I was rather successful, for the first question I asked, inquiring as to how he spent those five hours in the Museum, shot the train of conversation out of the station and kept it going for so long I was actually shocked when our food arrived and I had not yet begun to grow uncomfortable or fumble for a reply – or even to think of my second stock query.

He had replied that he spent a good portion of the time reading (small surprise, that) about various scientific and medical discoveries, reacquainting himself with London in general, and the rest in wandering the halls looking at the exhibits, specially the Far Eastern one.

This led to a discussion of our Indian Empire, and I listened with genuine interest to his recounting his first experience with meeting a female tiger in its natural habitat. I asked a few questions about the thing, never having seen one save the pathetic grumpy old cat in the Zoological Gardens, and made note of the proper way to get away from one without being mauled, in case the situation ever arose. Not that I hope it will, in downtown London, but it is best to be prepared for any possible eventuality, however obscure.

I then asked about the venomous snakes like the adders and cobras, as that would be valuable information for my monograph, and took a few notes on my napkin (I was not about to write on my sleeve again, for one thing – and the café would never miss the fabric square, and besides I left two extra shillings on the table to pay for it). This led in turn to my aforementioned discussion of poisons, since he naturally (and with trepidation) asked what my interest was in the hooded cobra, to which I replied that I was studying various venomous and poisonous plants and animals for a research project.

I received an increasingly-familiar raised eyebrow and a question, something to the effect of "Do you keep those sorts of things on hand on a regular basis?" I neglected to mention in my answer that the only reason I did not have my poinsettia plants in my room at the moment was because Mrs. Dudley's beastly little cat had got hold of them just prior to my moving (needless to say, Kitty Kitty was not in the friskiest of moods when I left); no need to make the fellow more apprehensive of me than he is already.

I vaguely mentioned that at one point I had made a study of nightshade and belladonna, and I suddenly saw his eyes widen marginally and he began unaccountably to laugh.

"What?" I asked, quite perplexed.

He grinned and took a sip of his water before responding. "Something Stamford said to me about you, just before we met."

"Oh?" I asked warily, wondering what the devil the fellow had done now.

"He said that he would not be surprised at your slipping a friend a pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid – not out of malice, just to see exactly what effect it would have on a person," the Doctor said with a grin.

I was horrified that the capital fool had been putting such ideas into a prospective fellow-lodger's head. "And yet you agreed to go halves with me _anyway_?"

"Well, he said a _friend_, not a total stranger," he replied slyly with an easy one-shouldered shrug. "And he did also say he thought you would take the stuff yourself with the same readiness."

"Stamford is an idiot of the first water," I snorted with much less amusement than my companion obviously was indulging in.

He chuckled and glanced up as – to my profound surprise – our food arrived. Had it really been a half-hour?

"He means well," the Doctor continued the conversation good-naturedly once the waiter had left.

"Still," I mumbled, shoving a forkful of potatoes into my mouth. "Saying I would dose a friend with poison just for scientific observation…"

"I must say, I would feel a bit sorry for your friends if I thought he were genuinely serious," he laughed, slicing his beef into neat little strips.

"I have none, so you need not fear for their medical safety." I shrugged, taking a drink of water and turning my attention back to my excellent pork.

My companion stopped mid-slice to glance curiously at me, his eyes widening ever so slightly. The incredulous reaction made me hastily backtrack to discover what I had said that was so remarkable…I could not remember anything I had spoken that was out of the ordinary…

"None?" he asked, apparently completely without rudeness but mere innate curiousity.

"No, not really," I replied conversationally. "Most people think me to be a rather odd individual, due to my eccentric tendencies and strangely amassed knowledge."

"That doesn't, or shouldn't, be a reason for people to avoid you," he said sensibly.

I shrugged again. "I am not the overtly friendly type, as you may have observed, Doctor."

"_No_, really?"

I blinked over my water glass at him, but his face was a veritable picture of cherubic innocence. _Too_ innocent. He was teasing me _again_.

And the thing that still puzzles me the most about the entire affair (and I have been trying to deduce all the day today why I had this reaction, failing miserably to work it all out) – is that I _laughed_.

That gives me something to ponder tonight as I go to work, at any rate. Between attempting to solve that puzzle, and getting through the night without Bruner or his minion discovering I am a plant, it promises to be a most engaging evening.


	16. January 22, 1881

_January 22, 1881_

_11:05 p.m._

This is not good. This is very, wholly, entirely, completely not good. As in, I have no idea how much worse this situation could possibly get, other than a murder. My murder.

As I said, _not_ good.

There is a very logical reason I am sitting here shivering in my bedroom, scribbling this day's scattered history instead of serving cognac and cigars at my client's (who shall remain nameless, the colossal dolt) illicit gambling den.

Well, two reasons. One, that this Bruner fellow is a deal sharper than he looks (which is to say, about as intelligent as my hat-stand). And two, my client is a coward who is easily intimidated by men with pistols and fists large enough that I wonder if mutagens had a part in their biological make-up.

The Doctor is asleep, thank heaven, or at least he is quiet upstairs, leaving me free to regain my breath and take stock of the night's damages, which unfortunately were rather steep.

_Monetary_ – spent half my night's tips on that cab just now; doubling the price if he could shake my homicidal stalker accomplished the end I had in view but left me near penniless after what had started out to be an especially profitable evening.

_Physical_ – nothing visible, thank heaven. I would not enjoy being forced to answer a string of questions from an over-reacting medico in the morning. Although I shall make certain not to slam my person into any walls in the near future; twice in one night is more than enough such action for any man.

_Egotistical_ – very bad. I'd no idea I was so obviously _not_ a waiter – I only spilled one glass one time, for the love of heaven! Either this Bruner fellow is far more smart than he looks, or else my acting ability is in dire need of some serious overhauling. I am more inclined to the former, but honesty compels me to admit that perhaps I do need to practice such get-ups a bit more than I have of late. I wonder if I could use the Doctor as a laboratory rat and try out various roles upon him – he appears sharper than most and if I could fool a man who sees me daily then surely I could deceive a complete stranger.

The single redeeming feature about the night's atrocities is that this Hubert Bruner does not know my name, unless my witless (and spineless) client has spilt it to him by now. If he does, I shall collect my pound of flesh, I swear it. It was only by sheer ingenuity and a bit of honest luck that I escaped the East End before Bruner's bodyguard caught up with me after throwing me out into the street. Nice, amiable chap, that.

He gave me no reason last night to suspect that he was on to my game, and in consequence neither I nor my client was expecting him to return tonight – most definitely not in his usual rounds, according to my client, and so definite cause for worry the moment he appeared with reinforcements in the shape of a monster a good two inches taller than I and at least twice my weight.

The end result being the extortionist and his hired gunmen trashing the place and I escaping by the skin of my teeth from being dumped in the Thames in a weighted overcoat. My client appeared to have convinced Bruner of his innocence in the matter by the time the extortionist's bodyguard had slammed my head into the wall for the second time (leaving a rather large dent – in _both_ places of impact), and for his sake I hope he was convincing.

For _my_ sake, I also hope the gruesome twosome do not discover my true name or occupation – my client had better have destroyed anything he still owns bearing my name and address or I could be in some extremely hot water.

As I have said already, several times, _not_ good.

However, should the evidence I have now not be sufficient to convict the main members of Bruner's gang for extortion, at least I could have him and his hired hand in for assault. I would not normally have them arrested for destroying the 'tobacco store', due to the illegal activities held in back outside normal business hours; but if my client gives me up then I have no compunction about throwing him to the legal wolves in order to send the whole package to prison for a long time to come.

That is, if Bruner does not find me before I can amass evidence and enlist official help in finally bringing the gang to justice. My client, if he is still alive by now, would probably help in that by pleading Queen's evidence and getting some of his fellow victims of the racket to testify…

What a despicably slow process the legal court system is!

* * *

_11:45 p.m._

I feel a bit better now that I have a loaded pistol in my bedside drawer. I am not fond of the free usage of such weapons, but an Eley's No.2 is the best argument I am aware of against a brute such as this Bruner's bodyguard. I believe the back of my head is permanently flat from his cracking it against the wall – an occurrence I should not like to repeat if at all possible.

In other news…is there other news? It was a most lazy Sunday. The Doctor had been so exhausted by his unusual exertions of Friday evening that Mrs. Hudson told me he came straight home from our dinner and went to bed, and he did not rise until nearly luncheon yesterday (leaving me plenty of time to enjoy the quiet solitude).

There was a telegram from my brother at breakfast (I had been unable to reach him in his office due to official business – which was perfectly agreeable with me as I had no desire to hear _yet again_ about my needing to get a steady income and some kind of life outside my own head). True to form, terse, to the point, and entirely impersonal.

GLAD TO HEAR OF DEPARTURE FROM THAT HOVEL STOP GIVE FELLOW-LODGER MY SINCEREST CONDOLENCES AND DO TRY TO NOT KILL YOURSELF OR HIM BEFORE EASTER FINAL STOP MYCROFT.

_Et tu, meus frater?_

Condolences, my foot. I shall do nothing of the kind. For one, I never have done _anything_ brother dearest orders me to and I have no intention of starting now. For another, telling the Doctor I even _have_ living family would open me up to an onslaught of curious questions from a man who obviously is far too intrigued with my irregular life as it is.

No, thank you very much. I think not.

I believe I did shock said doctor speechless today over supper, though. A first-time occurrence, as nothing I appear to have done or said thus far in our acquaintance seems to have provoked quite that precise response. How exactly the topic came up, I am not certain, but I believe it was after discussing the weather (yes, that was the extent of my voluntary conversation) that the subject turned to the day today – the winter solstice.

I only vaguely remembered reading something of the kind in my childhood tutoring, as I had ignored anything (and everything) I knew would be of no further use to me in the art of detection, and so was only half-listening at the moment when he remarked how glad he was that the days would start to be getting longer now, after the shortest amount of daylight today this season.

"Mmph? Why is that?" I asked, more rhetorically and more to fill in the expectant pause than real interest. "Pass the salt."

"Why am I glad, or why are the days getting longer? Here." He shoved the salt shaker across the table, and I swept it up in one hand before it kept scooting and fell onto the floor.

"Both," I said eagerly, knowing that two answers to two questions would take twice as long – less conversation for me to make in that case. I mentally congratulated myself for a very smart move.

The man opposite me stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth and looked at me incredulously. "You don't know why the days are getting longer?"

"Should I?"

What did I care? I performed my business when and where it came to me, so what difference did it make if it were light or dark outside, besides it being harder to sleep with that cursed sunlight splitting the blinds in my bedroom?

"But…it's the winter solstice today, Holmes. The day of the year with the shortest number of daylight hours," he explained patiently.

"I can make the deduction for myself then, that the sun will rise earlier each morning until summer," I retorted, not appreciating his superior attitude, though I doubted he meant to sound that way; I am not quite sure the man could be purposely snobbish if he worked at it.

"The sun doesn't rise, Holmes."

"I beg your pardon? Pepper, please."

"The sun. It's stationary. Please tell me you did know _that_ at least," he said with narrowed eyes, pushing the pepper shaker toward me. I picked it up and began heavily peppering my greens, wondering what the blazes he was on about.

"The sun rises and sets, Doctor; what else is there to discuss on the matter?" I paused to taste the greens. Ugh. Not Mrs. Hudson's most stellar attempt at edible vegetation.

"The sun doesn't rise, Holmes, the earth orbits round it," my companion answered incredulously, his eyebrows meeting close to his hairline.

"All right, so the earth moves round the sun, what difference does it make to the people living here?" I demanded, gulping down the last of the greens with difficulty. "We would live the same way even if we went round Jupiter! It makes no difference to life as we know it so why bother discussing it?"

"But…how can you not have known that?" he asked feebly, forgetting all about his dinner in the wake of this apparently staggering fact, that I was neither aware of nor caring about planetary orbits. "Every schoolboy knows the Copernican theory for the solar system!"

"Every schoolboy also knows how to plant a frog in his roommate's bed – I trust that is not a venture you would like me to adopt for the reason you listed as logical argument?" I pointed out with a streak of wicked mischief.

His mustache twitched in a hinted smile before the look of disbelief on his face faded slightly. "You really are serious, aren't you? Not pulling my leg?"

"Why would I, over something so trivial? Are you going to finish that beef?"

"No, go ahead. But…it's science, Holmes! Things like that are not trivial!"

His earnestness was beginning to be more annoying than entertaining at this point, and I admit (yes, contrary to popular belief, a completely logical mind has the power to be brutally honest even about one's self – and I do admit) I responded slightly more harshly than I meant to.

"What the deuce is it to me? If we went round the _moon_ it could not make any difference to me or my work!" I snapped crossly, stuffing the rest of my dinner in my mouth in hopes that table courtesies would negate further discussion of my (evidently immense) scientifically knowledgeable shortcomings.

I did slightly, _only_ slightly, regret my rather irritable response when he instantly dropped the subject with a murmured apology, hiding his gaze in his water glass for the next six and one half seconds. Proof of how unused he is to my snappishness (good Lord, he had better _get_ used to it as it has only been a fortnight!) was evidenced in the fact that I had unintentionally left him a wide opening to ask just what my work was – and he did not even think about taking the lure.

That is what happens with me under forced conversation – invariably frustration takes over eventually and colours my words with more irritation than I actually feel. I do hate that, as it is not fair to unsuspecting and sensitive people such as he is. Not that there is anything I can or would ever do to change the fact, but still – I believe in justice and fair play, as long as harm is not likely to occur to one's own person through such, and where is the justice in inflicting my social ineptitude on an unsuspecting population?

It is hard to sleep when one is mentally disturbed about one's social shortcomings as well as having to keep one ear cocked and listening for signs of an extortion gang boss's breaking into one's house to murder one in one's bed.

As I believe I have said before – _not_ good.


	17. January 24, 1881

_January 24, 1881_

_10:12 p.m._

Yesterday was a day of little note. I attended the inquest to testify against the man who stuffed me in a tuna-crate, and that rather mundane legal technicality occupied most of an otherwise lackluster morning. Lestrade was good enough (or rather, not rude enough to shake my persistence) to allow me to tag along with him for an hour after the thing was finished, and told me what he knew about this bird-thieving business over the ubiquitous cup of Scotland Yard office tea.

As I suspected, connecting all the points up was a childishly simple undertaking and I may just find myself not being required to locate Bertie after all (my meeting with his mistress yesterday yielded nothing new by way of information), because between the official and I it appears to be an open-and-shut case that the police can have well in hand. I shall just remain observing in the wings in case they make a colossal bungling mess of the affair, which actually is a more than likely eventuality.

I wonder if Mrs. Hudson's anger over the mishaps of today might be placated by a purebred, thoroughly trained Siamese cat? Though she keeps a terrier, I believe the little fellow is so decrepit that the cat could probably eat it with little or no trouble. Especially _these_ particular Siamese.

Ugh, no no no – I completely forgot how _loud_ that blasted breed of felines are. _And_ the fact that I am thinking of growing a nightshade plant in my bedroom. Two very good reasons to not bring another animal into this house.

As I said, yesterday was inanely useless at best, judging from the trivial bent of my thoughts in recalling it.

Today, however…what a capital mess to end all messes! And I do not just mean the state of my bedroom. And the unkindest cut of all to my mind, is that for once I am solely responsible for what happened here this afternoon; it is impossible to shift the blame onto another, unsuspectingly innocent, party. I am the only possible cause and we all know it.

But from the beginning…

The day commenced innocuously enough. The Doctor made a bleary-eyed appearance at breakfast but his appetite was noticeably (so much so that Mrs. Hudson fussed at him for several minutes afterwards) diminished – and as I vaguely recall him mentioning that the weather changes aggravate his still-healing injuries, even Lestrade would have been able to deduce that he was not feeling at all well and had slept even worse.

Another indication of this elementary deduction was that he drank more coffee than he ingested eggs, and into the last cup he mixed something which I suspected to be a pain reliever of some kind. The novelty of the thing arrested my attention at once, as I have never once seen the stubborn fool do so, though this is not the first time he probably should have.

A pleasant by-product of this event was that he was morose and silent through breakfast, allowing me to dissect the _Times, Globe, _and _Standard_ with a blissfully interruption and conversation-free half-hour block of time. And then he collapsed into his chair by the fire and promptly fell asleep before he had read even three pages of the penny dreadful he had chosen with which to pass the chilly morning.

Leaving me free to take apart the _News, Echo,_ and _Pall Mall_ in search of any shred of indication regarding this bird-burglar or his ferocious felines. And also to check the criminal news to see if a man matching my gambling-client's description had turned up yet in the Thames or an alley in Rotherhithe, to complete his destiny of filling a slab in the Yard's morgue.

Thankfully for him (and my still-partially-unpaid fee), no such news was to be found. Granted, that did not mean he was still alive after Bruner and his men had got through with him, but at least it did not indicate he was _not_.

I found a few tiny clues in one small article in the _Echo_ that I desired to draw Lestrade's attention to, and so it was around eleven that I left the sitting room (and its still-soundly-slumbering occupant) and made a quick and extremely chilly run to the Yard to put my oar into the River Styx of law and order.

After roundly torturing the very slow sergeant on duty and twisting him up in his own dim illogic, Lestrade finally ended the fun by coming out to meet me instead of making me walk back to his office (or perhaps he came out to _prevent_ me from doing so). I do believe we shall have the fellows within the week – that would make two very unusual criminal arrests in five days that we have collaborated on, Bruner's and this fowl-snatcher. A hitherto unheard-of occurrence, and not one I should like to repeat anytime soon. The collaboration, not the arrests.

Bruner. How delighted I am that he is at this very moment probably being told he has one hour until lights-out, in that cold cell in the Yard's holding block. Though I dearly wish, due to the nasty consequences of the afternoon, that I had been able to get him thrown in there by some other, less violent and personal, way. And I also wish I had _broken_ his nose, not just bloodied it.

Which is the entire source of my self-frustration at the moment, for the thing could very easily have turned much worse than it did and I do hate the unexpected and the uncontrollable. It was around three-thirty when I finally arrived back at Baker Street, my blood frozen in my veins and unable to feel my nose or fingers – and in a not very nice temper because of the fact.

I made my way up the stairs, shivering even though the hall was certainly warmer than the out-of-doors, and had entered my bedroom to shed my snow-soaked coat – when I heard raised voices. Angry voices. And…

"Now look 'ere, Doctor," the one, a coarse growling voice, was saying…where had I heard that voice recently? "I've 'ad about enough from you – got nothing against you partic'larly, but like 'e said, we needta find yer friend, and fast."

"And I _told_ you I've no idea when he'll be back," my fellow-lodger declared with some heat. "And furthermore, breaking in here unannounced does not induce me to trust you in the least. I do not like your looks, sir!"

I chuckled at the fellow's vehemence – quite a temper that man has, and whoever was looking for me obviously did not know the fact. This could be quite entertaining, I thought, but…

I stiffened as a sudden muffled cry of pain reached my ears. This was no simple argument. In one bound I was at the half-opened doorway, and saw the Doctor struggling in the grip of a man fully twice his weight and a good four inches exceeding his height, his arms pinioned behind his back in what had to be an excruciating position given that still-healing shoulder.

I swore softly – they had indeed found me! I recognised that beast of a man all too well, for I had him to thank for the permanent flatness of my skull in back. _Think, _what was I going to do…

"Doctor, I'll not ask again," the other, a familiarly short fellow, spoke with his face only scant inches from the Doctor's. The man's back was to me, but I had no doubt from his stature and the sickeningly oily voice that Bruner had gotten my identity out of my client or something of his and had come calling – the poor Doctor had had the dreadful misfortune to be the one at home when he did.

To his credit, my newest acquaintance made not a sound as his arms were wrenched once more, but his face went white as a sheet and perspiration stood out upon his forehead as his struggles weakened. I turned to snatch the Eley's from my drawer but remembered I had taken it from thence yesterday and put it in my desk when I sat up late last night messing about on my violin. _Blast. _What was I going to do…

"You're not doing either of you any good, you know," Bruner said chillingly, leaning forward with an almost tangible air of menace that would have made a lesser man cringe. Despite his shorter stature, the man was most intimidating – though the Doctor gave no reaction whatsoever to him.

The soldier's eyes, clouded and dull though they were from pain, flashed a hazel fire that surprised even me. "You'll get nothing from me," he snapped with an ire that even weak was still formidable. "I don't know who you are or what you want, but you might as well save yourself the trouble, and others the oxygen, by ceasing to interrogate me about Holmes's whereabouts…"

I felt my fists clench unintentionally as his voice trailed off with a tight stifled groan of pain when the blackguard holding him wrenched on his arms once more. His eyes fluttered closed, and his knees began to buckle – I could take it no longer. Plan or no plan, this was going no farther. I had no weapon on me, but I could not take the time to find one; this was _bloody well not_ going to happen in _my_ house.

"Bruner, let him go!" I snapped somewhat theatrically, flinging the door open and barging impulsively into the room. In retrospect, that was most likely _not_ a smart idea. At all. Not even slightly.

_Why then in blazes did I do it? _

Such recklessness is so completely foreign to my nature that all logic states conclusively that the deed was so out-of-character I must be off my head. Which would only confirm what Mycroft has been saying for years…

"So you _are_ here, Holmes," Bruner said calmly, yawning with an air of extreme boredom.

In one fluid motion, I had snatched my swordstick from the umbrella stand, whirled round, and whipped the blade against the giant bodyguard's throat as he glared somewhat foolishly at me. Obviously the fellow had been chosen for his brawn, not his brains (which existence was highly debatable). I became slightly alarmed when the Doctor's eyes did not open at the sound of my voice or of the ensuing conversation.

"I said _let him go_," I hissed, almost hoping the man would refuse so that I should have an excuse to run him through – rarely, _very_ rarely, have I felt such anger as I felt today at that instant. It was a rather bizarre feeling, and I have absolutely no idea why or how it happened to run through _my_ mind of all people's...I observe that I seem to be saying some phrase to that effect rather often of late, as I look back through this desultory set of memoirs. Strange, very strange.

"You heard Mr. Holmes, Garton," Bruner drawled. "Do let his friend go now, we have other business to take care of."

"Yessir," the giant muttered, releasing the unresponsive form of the Doctor, whereupon he slumped to the ground in a limp heap, his hand clenching slightly on the carpet.

I admit to losing my temper at that point. In consequence, I also lost my focus, allowing the monster Garton to duck and swipe the swordstick out of my grip with one enormous hand and send me reeling, my head ringing, with the other (the fact that I did deserve that for losing concentration only served to make me more furious). I stumbled backward but not in time to avoid a second blow that knocked me tumbling dangerously toward the fire. _Flames…bare skin…not going to be pleasant..._

I caught myself on the edge of the mantel and came round swinging with the poker, catching the oaf on the side of the ribcage and then driving the point into his enormous stomach, whence he gave a rather satisfying _ooorrff_ and doubled over, allowing me to bend the steel with both hands over his thick skull (making a dreadful clanging noise each time, and I do believe the fire-instrument is now permanently dented). Twice, thrice I struck him with the poker, until he collapsed on the hearthrug and lay motionless. I was, I admit, rather proud of the fact that my own cranium had been avenged for being slammed into the wall the other evening.

But my attention had been drawn away from my main target, one Hubert Bruner, and I glanced up in time to see him bring his foot crashing down on the Doctor's wrist – obviously the man had regained part of his senses at least and was reaching furtively for the discarded swordstick. The soldier gave a small grunt of pain and tried desperately to move out of the way of another blow, only this one dealt at the end of that weighted cane Bruner held – more like a club than a walking-stick – but he was still obviously stunned, and never would make it out of the way in time. He weakly raised his arm to protect his head as the lead-filled head came crashing down. _That will hurt,_ _a __lot_…

Without taking the time to think (had I paused to do so, no doubt my brain would have screamed at what stupidity this was, but) I dove in between them, poker upraised between my hands, and caught the blow before it fell, the impact vibrating all the way down my arms. The resulting clang reverberated around the room and in my teeth, jarring them painfully. But in an instant I was on my feet again, dodging a second blow aimed at my head and deflecting it with ease, using both hands to wield my impromptu single-stick. _Obviously this fellow knows nothing about technical self-defense, he should have been much quicker than that._

_Duck, duck, left-right, block, jab_. I connected with Bruner's shoulder and received a yelp as iron met flabby muscle. _Duck, left-end, right-end, up, then down, block, swing._ Missed him that time and spun out of control for a moment, taking a glancing blow to the upper arm that made me wince and tighten my grip on the poker. _Luck, not skill. __Duck, feint, miss, duck, left end, duck, weave around, swing left-right. Hard._

That time I hit him solidly between the shoulder blades and got a scream of pain. _Oh dear, that was far too childishly easy_. Of course he was a good seven inches shorter than I but that made it the harder for me to aim at vital nerve centres. I ducked another swipe at my head, weaved round him once more, feinted and then rammed the point squarely into his lower abdomen. Bruner bent double, choking and gasping, and I brought the iron cracking down upon his flabby wrist.

The club fell with a metallic clang, and not a moment afterwards its owner followed suit as I fetched him up against the desk with two well-placed jabs and finished him with a swift upper-cut, badly bruising my knuckles in the process. They _still_ hurt like the very devil, but it was well worth it to have the man at last.

I dropped the poker with a thud, attempting to regain my breath (I must be thoroughly out of practise, as I should not have even broken a sweat under that brief scrap) and process what had just happened. Then my gaze fell upon my companion, who had not moved from his last position, face down on the floor with his eyes closed and his head upon his arm as if he'd finally collapsed there.

"Doctor? Are you hurt?" I asked, crouching beside him.

He was obviously conscious, just not up to opening his eyes just yet, for his breathing quickened instantly and he moved his head. "I'm…fine, Holmes…," he said weakly. "Mrs. Hudson…those men broke in…better go find her, she could be injured…"

I was loathe to leave until I had ascertained if he were really hurt or not – for undoubtedly the man would say he was "fine" if he were actually _dying_ – but it was the practical thing to do, and I hastily pelted down the stairs and back to our estimable landlady's quarters.

I found the poor woman locked in her own pantry, more furious than frightened (I for one would not like to be Bruner if she got her work-hardened hands upon him) and only roughed up a bit. I attempted to hastily apologise for the events of the afternoon and asked her to send for the police, before I took the seventeen steps two at a time (three on the last set) to re-enter the sitting room.

I reached it in time to see the Doctor attempting valiantly to get to his elbows and knees before collapsing with a low moan and lying still, his chest rising and falling too rapidly. I crossed the room in three steps and dropped to one knee beside him, casting a cursory glance at our assailants to ensure they were still unconscious. Pity, I should have so enjoyed acquainting them yet again with my boxing skills.

Now, what the blazes was I supposed to do with the Doctor?

"Watson?" I asked, feeling something almost physically gnawing at the back of my throat – such a strange sensation that I nearly forgot all else in attempting to categorise it. In retrospect, I suppose it was no more than guilt that innocent parties had become collateral damage in a war that should have stayed in the East End. This _should not_ have happened.

When he heard my voice he hastily attempted once more to get to a less vulnerable position but would have fallen forward once again had I not reached out (purely out of reflexes, for it surprised me as much as it did him, I rather think) and caught him, easing him back slowly to a sitting position against the wall, whereupon he closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on breathing slowly.

"Thank you," he murmured at last, evidently too exhausted to be embarrassed by his weakness. Not that it was his fault, anyway.

I had felt upon the physical contact that he was trembling, and he had not yet ceased – no doubt due to the immense and sudden strain upon his already taut nerves and weakened physical condition, specially coming after a bad night. I should have bashed Garton's head in.

Finally he opened his eyes and tentatively glanced at me. "What the devil…did you ever do to those two…to make such enemies out of them?" he asked in abject disbelief.

"Long story, Doctor," I said dismissively, for I still did not like the pallour of his face nor did I want to get into an onslaught of overwrought questions. That was the last thing I needed, him fainting on me or needing medical attention. I reached toward his shoulder and arm, intending to help him to his feet despite the fact that I had never had occasion to give anyone aid involving physical contact before – I hoped I knew what I was doing! – but he hastily shook his head.

"No, don't," he gasped, and I belatedly realised the pain must still be intensely evident.

"I'm sorry," I replied uneasily, wishing to heaven those two villains had confined their attentions to me and had called when I was at home alone. "Can you stand?"

"Yes, of course," he replied instantly, though I doubted truthfully. He took a deep breath and, brusquely shrugging off my offer of aid, put one hand on the floor and the other on the wall to begin pushing himself to his feet, grunting in pain at the sudden movement.

It is a credit to his strength (and infernal stubbornness) that he did make it to a standing position, or nearly. But as he got his feet under him, he suddenly gave a soft gasp and held an unsteady hand to his eyes as if dizzy. I hastily put one hand under his elbow and another on his back (not his shoulder, for obvious reasons), keeping him upright until his center of gravity returned to his weary and still-healing leg.

"All right?" I asked the stupid question, for I had no idea what else to say.

He nodded finally but made no move to shake off my hands as I carefully, inconspicuously so that he would not notice I was doing so, began to guide his steps. "I am no physician, Doctor, but I would prescribe the couch and a stiff drink at the moment," I fumbled awkwardly in an attempt to lighten the strained tension.

He nodded, leaning a bit more heavily on my arm and then straightening up suddenly as he realised he was doing so.

"What about Mrs. Hudson?" was his first question upon collapsing, trying slowly to regain his breath.

"More angry than hurt, I fancy," I said lightly. "I recall her threatening to take a rolling-pin to the fellows if they regain consciousness before the police arrive."

He chuckled weakly, slumping back against the pillow at the head of the couch.

"I am…dreadfully sorry about this, Doctor…I happen to make a few enemies in my profession," I offered by way of a rather pathetic explanation. What else could I say?

He was obviously far too fatigued to question me upon the matter, though I had just unwittingly given him the perfect opportunity to ask further questions about my occupation. I had begun to think he had fallen asleep, when he opened one eye and looked curiously at me.

"You fence and are quite familiar with a singlestick, are you not?" was his unexpected question.

"I've been called rather good by various in the professions, yes," I replied slowly, wondering what the devil brought that on.

He nodded. "It showed, most definitely, in that fracas. Neat bit of work, that."

I felt my face crease in a smile without meaning to – praise was always enjoyable, but coming from a man who never gave it unless he felt it was deserved, it was even more so. I was also pleased that he had been conscious throughout – it spoke of his strength of character and also the fact that he could not be too badly hurt from the ordeal. Very good.

He was still breathing heavily and had not yet stopped trembling entirely, so I got up to pour him a glass of water, grabbing two pairs of handcuffs from their hanging positions on the hat-stand on my way back. I handed him the water and then made certain our guests would not be moving about any time soon.

"Do you fence or some such, Doctor?" I asked conversationally, and quite curiously – obviously the man was well-acquainted with both if he could appreciate my own skill in that little brawl.

"I did before the army," he said resentfully, unconsciously rotating his bad shoulder with a grimace. "Not anything like professionally, but I could have held my own in self-defense against three such as that brute there before the Afghanis ruined that ability for me for life."

I winced at the clear hard bitterness behind the words – obviously the man's fierce pride had suffered greatly over his inability to defend himself today. And to a man who obviously had been both active and strong before an unfair Fate had meddled with his life, the thing had to be doubly galling.

I dashed a bit of brandy into the still half-filled glass of water and handed it back to him, and he downed it in one gulp, setting the glass on the floor when he had finished, well out of the way of my pacing feet.

I saw his jaw set tensely and wondered what he was about to say that would be so positively painful to him. A moment later I found out.

"Thank you, by the way, for blocking that club," he said stiffly. "I was too slow."

"Nonsense, Doctor, you were perfectly capable. I merely did not want a permanent dent in the floor," I replied easily, and I was very glad to see him give me a faint smile.

Apparently (for once!), I had said the right thing. How I wish I could make that a habit, but it is impossible to continue a behaviour when one has no idea what one did in the first place. Pity.

At any rate, Bruner and his lovable bodyguard are now completely Lestrade's responsibility, and good riddance to both of them.

And as of tomorrow when we arrest this bird-thief and I discover the location of dear Bertie, I will once again be without a case.

I would almost (almost) prefer out-matched brawls in my sitting room...


	18. January 25, 1881

_January 25, 1881_

_5:15 p.m._

In finishing my last entry here, I did neglect to mention that I have now doubled my threats of eviction from one to two in the space of less than three weeks. Surely this does not bode well for my inhabitation of this house.

I had begun to fear that I should find myself out in the street before the evening were over last night, so (rightfully) outraged was Mrs. Hudson by the time the official forces of law and disorder had carted the groggy undesirables off to the police-wagon. Indeed, I believe she would have evicted me then and there without a second thought, had the Doctor not bravely stepped into the cross-fire to attempt negotiation at peace, bless his ludicrously unselfish soul.

More out of her obvious partiality to him than any real appeasement I suspect, she merely clucked over him like a mother hen and forced two cups of tea down his throat before leaving, shooting a glare over her shoulder before slamming the door that only my brother could match in its power to make me cringe.

I bristled but could not exactly resent when the Doctor laughed heartily at my chagrined expression after the unusual woman's steps had faded down the stairs.

"You'd best not indulge in any more of those experiments involving sulphur or other foul-smelling chemicals until she calms down a bit," he remarked slyly, reaching down slowly to pick up his discarded book from earlier and open to the fourth page.

I harrumphed rudely, eliciting another tolerant chuckle from him (can _nothing_ I do upset that man? Sometimes I wonder if a man can actually be that easy-going, or if the fellow just does not have a backbone), before disappearing into my bedroom to change out of my still-wet and now cracklingly frozen clothes.

When I re-entered the room I found he had fallen asleep again, no doubt his dwindling energy supply completely depleted from the effort of earlier. I wondered absently as I packed my pipe (_Note to self: Must find somewhere other than that old tin to keep my tobacco in, as the lid sticks and it is far too much work to get open_), if he had purposely waited until I left to fall asleep…some strange fear of appearing vulnerable in front of someone else? His reaction to hearing me return today, attempting to rise before he physically could, seemed to bear out that theory.

This small puzzle gave me no end of food for thought whilst I did some badly-needed updating in my index, resulting in a very decent addition to the letter _D_ and a smallish puddle of paste attracting lint and other undesirable substances (including the bottom of my slipper, confound it) into a gooey mess on the carpet near the table.

Needless to say…when Mrs. Hudson returned with supper to find me cutting a section of the carpet fibres loose (well how else was I supposed to clean up that sort of mess!), the only thing that prevented the third threat of tossing me and my scissors out on my ear (and the scissors preferably _not_ on my ear) was the fact that I was quick-witted enough to point out that the Doctor was resting and she should be quiet so as to not disturb him.

_Au contraire,_ he was very definitely awake and listening, for when the door had shut behind our squawking landlady his eyes opened and he began to laugh once again at me.

"A strategic defense," was his sole innocent remark as he more staggered than rose to his feet and made a very slow way over to the table, leaning on the various articles of furniture. I let out my breath as he passed over the glue-puddle without treading in it, safely (if awkwardly) landing in his chair and reaching for the dishes I was not attacking at the moment.

"Mind if I ask you something?" he queried, spooning up some of the hot soup (bless that woman, she did at least have an excellent idea of what to cook for two frozen gentlemen on a freezing day like this).

"Not at all," I replied (though I _did_ mind, one must make concessions in this strange art of conversation if one wishes to keep said conversation moving with as little awkwardness as possible) warily around a mouthful of bread. Thankfully he either did not notice or did not mind my poor manners but merely went on.

"Is this sort of thing going to happen often?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and gesturing to the poker and the swordstick still lying on the floor.

I flinched. "Erm…no, definitely not, Doctor. It was not supposed to happen this time either, and for that I do apologise," I began, somewhat frantically as I suspected he was probably going to leave – shot nerves and all that.

"Good," he sighed in relief, going back to his soup without another word.

I breathed a sigh of relief myself and hastily directed the conversation into a completely different channel. We discussed the matter no further that evening, for which I was devoutly grateful – I had no desire to be seeking out, convincing, and then acclimating to yet _another_ lodger. I have not yet even _begun_ to grow accustomed to _this_ one.

Morning broke with a furious snowstorm, but not so much that traffic was completely prevented. I had breakfasted and left the house early to go locate my client (or what I suspected was left of him) and have it out with him for giving me up to the likes of that Bruner. And, more importantly, to collect my fee, with which I wanted to purchase a new microscope.

My client had apparently left his dingy lodgings the night my cover shattered and had not returned. By my telling the rather scruffy landlord I was a creditor (and _via_ a good bit of well-practised intimidation tactics by yours truly), the fellow gave up the only information he knew, that my client had said he was leaving and not coming back.

I was thoroughly incensed, as he still owed me half my fee, and with another bit of persuasion _a la Sherlock Holmes _the landlord pointed me to the fellow's room, which I went through in hopes that he had left some clue behind as to his current whereabouts.

For my pains I found nothing but mould, two dead mice, and a wet patch where the snow had leaked through the roof. Wonderful.

Logic told me I had already got more than my fee in my tips those three nights in the gambling-den, but it was the principle of the thing that was so devilishly frustrating. One type I cannot stand in the least is a man who welshes on his debts. Though I could not really blame the chap for fleeing, knowing Bruner were after him; I probably should have done the same thing myself.

Still, I was in an extremely black mood by the time I got to Scotland Yard that afternoon; after running a few errands I went to see Inspector Lestrade again about the elusive bird-snatcher. The official has laid all in place, and we are to meet at the set trap in two hours' time. Unfortunately, the temperature has dropped increasingly all day and it is going to be a rather frigid vigil until the fellow shows. If I do not turn into a human snow-man (though with my build, 'twould be more like a human icicle; my brother would be the snow-man) by the time he takes the bait, then we shall have him.

But at least we shall have him! I asked the Inspector what he intended to do with the gang (Gang? Flock? Bunch? What does one call a group of felines?) of cats, to which he shrugged and suggested we find them decent homes. I replied something to the effect of my being a private consulting detective, not an house-agent for stray Siamese, and for all I cared we could contact the closest sausage factory about them.

This appeared to shock the little official so much that he choked on his orange pekoe and of course burnt his throat. And had the subsequent audacity to suggest it was _my_ fault the idiot had done so!

The ensuing row drew the attention of three other inspectors and several gawping constables, and because I do know when I am outnumbered in enemy territory I backed out with dignity and left in a fuming fury.

Which dignity and the warmth from my anger instantly dissipated when a pile of snow atop an awning dumped all over me, covering me in wet soggy whiteness and slapping all the way down inside my clothes.

I was in a thoroughly black temper when I reached Baker Street. I discarded my coat and sodden hat on the floor in the hall downstairs (earning me a shriek of affront when Mrs. Hudson discovered them a half-hour later) and stumbled as fast as my frozen legs could carry my cold dead weight up into the sitting room and what I hoped was a blazing fire.

I opened the door and stumbled in, shivering, and procured a blankly surprised stare from the Doctor, who was sitting before the fire with a cup of tea and looking altogether too mockingly cozy.

"What the devil have you been doing? You've only just recovered from that cold; at this rate you'll be coming down with pneumonia!" he interjected, his eyebrows meeting fearsomely in the middle of his head.

"Now _that_ is a very s-stunning d-diagnosis, Doctor," I replied scathingly, as best I could through my chattering teeth and my irritation.

"You needn't be snippy about it," he said calmly, heaving himself to his feet and moving slowly, painfully, toward the table.

No, I needn't…but it felt rather good to let out some of the annoyance I was keeping under wraps at the moment (the rest of which I shall let Lestrade have an earful of tonight, believe me!), and I was not about to lie and apologise for doing it when I was not sorry in the least.

I had stumbled so close to the flames that my shoes were beginning to steam (or smoke, I did not care which at the moment), but at least I could finally feel my chin and hands again. I suddenly found the latter occupied by a steaming cup and saucer, as the Doctor handed them to me before collapsing with a wince back into his chair.

I blinked in surprise – I could have got it myself, certainly; my mobility had not been impaired by my being half-frozen, and there was absolutely no logical reason for him to have made such a painful journey across the room. Strange.

Even stranger was the fact that he had remembered to put milk in it as I normally took it and had had the intelligence to only fill it three-quarters of the way full so it would not slop over the sides onto my shaking hands.

It was only when I had (gratefully) nearly emptied the cup that I realised I had completely forgotten the proper courtesies that went along with receiving something from someone. Mycroft would have been utterly horrified.

"Thank you," I mumbled, hastily negating further conversation by downing the rest of the cup's hot contents, feeling the warmth finally start thawing my insides.

I received a small nod. "Better get out of those things before you either catch your death or flood the fire out," he directed, gesturing to the growing puddle under my feet.

I went to do so, _not_ out of obedience to a fellow man but because it made very good logical sense. Whatever that man's faults may be, stupidity is not one of them.

And by the time I had thrown on dry clothes and my warmest dressing-gown, I found I was, completely unaccountably, no longer irritated as I had been upon reaching home.

Why do I continually feel these days as though I am a participant in a mystery even I cannot solve?


	19. January 27, 1881

_January 27, 1881_

_6:15 a.m._

Yes, a.m. again. I do so hate early morning trains, especially when the weather is more suited to the habitat of penguins than _homo sapiens_.

At any rate…to work, then: the events of the previous day in order and the reason I am currently on board a train for the North of England, writing in the dining car because there was no smoking compartment empty and I had no desire to share one with some garrulously chipper morning-lover who would force me into friendly conversation (I talk to no one but Watson this early, and only he if I absolutely _must_).

Lestrade and his men finally did nab that bird-thief in our well-baited cage of two nights previous. Good, very good.

Unfortunately, that was the _only_ good point about the foul business.

Good heavens, did I actually just make that unforgivably bad pun? Where is that waiter with my coffee?

The man was taken quite easily and with minimal violence – those horrible Siamese devils were _not_, and more than one of us came away with badly bleeding hands and faces. Lestrade himself nearly lost an eye, earning the first twinge of sympathy from me I have yet felt for the man; and the Inspector told me yesterday that more than one of the constables was out ill from infected lacerations – apparently those brutes' teeth and claws were even more filthy than one would expect from living in a hell-hole like that was (complete with decaying birds and other vile substances that I still can smell in my clothing).

To bring the miserable business to a shining zenith of wretchedness, the temperature dropped to below zero for the first night in over a week. Luck _would_ have it to be on the one night we were forced to wait _outdoors_ for a criminal to show due to being unable to get a search and seizure warrant by some stupid technicality and a stupider magistrate. I have no patience with the official gears' grinding – which is why I am and always will remain a private and unofficial investigator. I should never last as an officer, besides; I should be arrested myself before my first tenure was out.

Due in part to being half-frozen and the other part to being half-clawed to death, I was not feeling overtly chipper when I returned after midnight to my humble abode; and when I awoke next morning well after eleven, it appeared my head-cold had made a resurrection from the dead and was now on a veritable rampage. I believe even my brain is congested and stuffy.

It was only when I began my toilette (one more night like these last two, and I shall have ice in my ewer pitcher instead of water) that I realised my arm was throbbing dully from the wrist; one of those daemon-possessed cats had impaled me squarely, and angry red streaks were now spreading from the scratch like a red radiating spider, jagged and torn.

And Lestrade had wanted to find them _nice homes_. I had more than one in mind, believe me – all involving furnace-stoking and meat-packing.

Luckily for me, the Doctor had that morning been chafing so badly against his enforced imprisonment that apparently, according to Mrs. Hudson, he had taken himself off in a cab to run some errands. I was glad he had the sound sense to at least not attempt to walk in this vile weather, for though the snow had stopped it was still quite bitterly cold, well below freezing.

However, I was an hundred times more glad that he had left his medical bag behind, as it allowed me to appropriate some of his antiseptic and a thin bandage to counteract the radiating pain in my wrist. Filthy little beast – I shall not be able to play my violin for a week, in all probability. Though with this new case that has presented itself (thankfully just in time to prevent my doing something incredibly dim-witted in my boredom), I probably will not have the time to do so anyway.

The scratch was throbbingly painful, and when I began to feel vaguely light-headed (odd, since my head was full of congestion and one would think the logical condition would be density, not airiness) after luncheon I did not have to be a physician to deduce that probably the scratch had become slightly infected. Lestrade's arrival a half-hour after I made this stunning deduction did absolutely nothing to make matters any more bearable.

Though he did physically look more dreadful than I due to Kitty's ferocious indentations on the side of his face, apparently he had had the sense to clean the scratches when he got back to the Yard, whereas I had done no more than collapse onto my cold bed once I'd returned home.

We discussed the formalities of the arrest, and he told me in disconsolation that three of his best men were out with either colds or infections, ending by informing me once the trial was over the cats would be going to a shelter. I felt more than a minor twinge of painful sympathy for the poor unsuspecting volunteers that would welcome the brutes with open arms, only to become the little devils' next scratching posts.

The Doctor returned just after we had finished this (not so) pleasant chat, though it took him nearly a full minute (fifty-four seconds) to climb the stairs after I heard the door shut and Mrs. Hudson's fussing voice fade back into her quarters below. He looked even colder and more miserable than I had last night, though minus the coating of snow.

"G-good afternoon, Mr. Lestrade. Letter f-for you in the noon p-post, Holmes, I brought it up for Mrs. Hudson," he stammered through chattering teeth, handing the missive to me with a shaking hand. He cast a longing glance at the fire but, true to his courteous nature, began to head for the door to allow someone he recognised as one of my clients our business privacy.

"For heaven's sake, Doctor," Lestrade spoke up hastily as I began to slit the letter open. "Please, I was just leaving anyway; and regardless, it's far too cold to not warm up before doing anything else."

I blushed despite myself when that insufferable little official turned a reproving glare upon me. All right, so I had not been thinking. Obviously the man thought I should have been.

I am still adjusting to having someone around to think of other than myself – one cannot expect me to perform like a socially adept person overnight, can they? They are bound to be disappointed, I could tell you that right this minute.

As I said, not a good day at all. I spent the rest of the time after luncheon hiding in my room so as to not have to face the repercussions of my breach of courtesy.

Despite the discomfort of the afternoon, when I finally ventured from my bedroom that evening to supper, apparently my lapse of etiquette had either been forgotten or overlooked…or perhaps just forgiven, though I cannot see what reason he would have for doing so.

Either way, I was not about to argue the matter, and dinner passed uneventfully enough and relatively painlessly. It was only afterwards when I reached up to the pipe-rack for my after-dinner smoke that the Doctor's sharp eyes spotted my bandaged wrist.

"I say, what did you do to yourself now, _besides_ letting that head cold come back?" he asked in an I-told-you-so tone, leaning back in his chair with what remained of the paper I had torn apart this morning. The sporting page appeared to be the only bit I had not clipped something out of, but he did not seem to mind.

"Honestly, Doctor. I am not a one-man medical practice," I retorted, not actually annoyed but more amused by his curiousity. And his sharpness in seeing the white under my cuff.

"Oh?"

The calmly pointed interjection made me wince, considering how many times of late I had deserved to be dubbed a walking accident.

He smirked, no doubt pleased with his petty victory, and settled back with a sigh, closing his eyes as the fire flickered and drove the chill back for a few feet at least.

"By the way, Doctor, I am going to be leaving town for a few days on business," I said suddenly, realising I probably should at least let the man know this time why I would be gone, considering the last time I disappeared for days on end he had been far too upset. "Three or four, or perhaps a week."

"Running from more thugs like the ones who came here looking for you yesterday?"

I blinked in dismay twice before realising he was teasing me again, and when I did finally figure out the fact I matched his grin. "No, no, certainly not. You shall be quite safe whilst I am gone. More so, probably," I muttered as an afterthought.

He merely smiled. "Make sure you tell Mrs. Hudson – I plan to sleep late tomorrow and really do not want to be rudely awakened by her frantic worrying when you don't show for breakfast," he remarked comfortably, settling back with his legs up on the ottoman.

Considering that he slept late nearly _every_ morning, I did not see why that pronouncement was necessary, but I nodded for the sake of continuing conversation. "After the events of yesterday, I rather think she shall be glad to be rid of me for a few days," I replied ruefully, striking a match and setting it to my pipe.

"Don't be ridiculous," my companion snorted.

"I'm not," I protested, completely puzzled. "You saw how she was going to throw me out over what happened here, and I cannot say I blame her overmuch."

"Holmes, honestly," he sighed wearily, looking up at me as if to silently and very politely tell me I was incredibly dense. "Couldn't you tell she was merely worried about what could have happened?"

"You mean furniture getting ruined in that melee or the carpet being destroyed? Yes, I can certainly see that…"

"Oh for heaven's sake." I received an annoyed eyeroll – what the blazes was he frustrated with? "Holmes, she was worried about _us_," he said with a patient smile, speaking slowly as if to a very small child. I resented the superiour attitude, but his words arrested my attention and for the moment I ignored my irritation in lieu of attacking the novelty.

"Us?" I asked incredulously. "Why in the world would she be worried about us?"

"Perhaps because most normal men are _not_ attacked in their own home by East End thugs," he suggested dryly. "And for another, she appears to have taken a fancy to us for some reason."

"A fancy to _you_, no doubt, but I am highly skeptical regarding taking one to me," I replied dubiously. "Why in the world would she?"

He gave a minute lopsided shrug but sent me a very curious searching glance. "I am no mind and brain specialist," he said slowly, "but perhaps she has been lonely since her husband died. People react to grief in different ways, but the best way is to find someone else to care for. Acting unselfishly toward a friend is a very potent antidote to self-pity or self-centredness."

I unabashedly stared at the man for a long minute; he appeared to be genuinely serious about that strange philosophy. I shook my head at the unusual depth of the man – from a casual observation of his appalling choice of reading material, one would think him a mere shallow romantic…this bespoke of a far more intricately layered mind than I had at first supposed.

Am I a hopeless busybody if the idea fascinates me?

"You, Doctor, appear to have far too much time on your hands, if you make a habit of thinking so deeply," I said lightly, turning to toss into the flames the match-end I was still holding.

"Indeed," he murmured regretfully, glancing bitterly at the window as it rattled under the impact of the chilly wind.

I wonder what he will be doing this entire week (for I well know that one's own mind is a man's most dangerous and potentially deadly enemy), with me absent on this case and not present for him to study…for I have the strange and somewhat disconcerting feeling that I am not the only keen observer living in that house.

Ah, my breakfast (at least I assume that pile of rubber is supposed to be a scrambled egg) at last. If nothing else, this case will make me grateful for Mrs. Hudson's cooking, whether the Doctor is correct about her worrying about us or not.


	20. February 2, 1881

_February 2, 1881 (yes, February 2 – I lost my journal upon arriving and only just found it this morning - thank heaven - under the seat of my client's dog-cart.)_

_10:11 p.m._

It is the strangest feeling in the world to actually _anticipate_ returning home instead of dreading it as I used to do when living in Montague Street. The Dudley woman and my less-than-desirable neighbours never understood why I would depart the house before daylight (that is, if I did not injure myself moving about the death-trap in the darkness) and not return until well after dark; naturally that sort cannot see a simple logical answer even when it stares at them from the mirror (which it did, every morning).

So it was an entirely novel sensation to actually be the closest thing to excited that I have been in as long as I can remember, when the train began to slow and chug ponderously into the bustling station this evening. And I actually found myself smiling for the first time all week (and _what_ a week…I was beginning to wonder toward the end there if the fee were actually worth my time and trouble), when I finally stepped foot back on London turf. Or pavement, as the case was at the station platform.

Six days in the country was more than enough for me – I was chafing to be back with civilization (and running water) once more and back in touch with the city and all its criminal activity. I wondered absently as I stepped down onto the platform if any crime of note had happened whilst I was gone…if I had missed any clients and if so, would they come back…if…

My thoughts scattered in surprise like so many snowflakes on the light breeze when my eyes fell upon a well-muffled figure seated on a bench across the platform, sharp eyes scanning the crowd with what appeared to be…eagerness? To get in out of the cold, no doubt.

The brainless smile that had affixed itself to my face from the moment I saw the buildings and smog of London looming ahead widened ever so slightly before I could prevent it. In my defense, it is a principle of elementary psychology that seeing a familiar face in a great pool of humanity in a metropolis such as London has been proven to make comrades out of people who barely know one another – much more so ones who do. That was all.

But why the deuce had he come out in the snow to meet me? Granted, it was not as chilly as it had been when I left, and the snow was falling gently without wind, but still. When one can be in front of a roaring fire with a warm supper, why in blazes would one run about in a winter's eve instead?

I had no time to ponder the matter further, however, for his eyes lit upon me and I could see the welcoming grin on his face even under the heavy muffler. He started to stand and I met him halfway – no sense in the fool walking further than he had to.

"What the devil are you doing sitting out in the cold, Doctor? After all your infernal pestering me about catching my death!"

"Hallo to you too," he replied dryly, grinning at my incredulous expression.

"Hmph."

"Luggage?" he asked succinctly.

"No, just this valise."

"I've a cab waiting."

"Well, I am glad to observe you displaying _some_ sense about the weather, at least," I snorted, striding off in the direction he indicated.

After a moment I realised the Doctor was struggling to keep up with me and I slowed my pace accordingly, remembering belatedly that it was rather rude to walk in front of one's companion when space permitted walking side-by-side.

As it transpired, it was a propitious thing I had done so, for in the chaotic milling mass of freezing people a large fellow with a larger carpetbag under one arm slammed almost squarely into him, sending him stumbling into me in turn. I dropped my valise instinctively to catch his arm, preventing a very embarrassing and probably painful fall to the icy pavement.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, slipping for a moment and then regaining his footing, straightening up with a jerk and a noiseless expression of pain.

"Not as if it was your fault. What a rude individual," I growled, glaring at the oblivious fellow's retreating form and briefly considering giving chase with my stick. No, it was too cold to be indulging in trivial theatrics. Still…

Honestly, even _I_ can remember to say "pardon me" when I bump into someone. Granted, I do not always _say_ it, but at least I do know it is the proper thing to do!

"Probably didn't even know he'd hit someone," my companion said breathlessly, glancing after the man and unconsciously rubbing his shoulder with a gloved hand.

Does the man forever insist upon assuming the good in people? Such honest good-naturedness can grow to be decidedly dull…I was quite grateful Christmas was not coming for another eleven months, as his spirit of goodwill would not doubt become mawkishly sickening.

I was rather glad when we had both finally made it in safety to the waiting vehicle.

"Mrs. Hudson said…let me see, what all was I supposed to tell you…" the Doctor's face scrunched up in deep thought as the cab moved with a jerk, and I repressed a grin at the idea of our strange landlady writing out a list of things to tell me when he saw me. I had wired ahead that I was coming home, in hopes that if she were not exactly thrilled about the matter she at least would be prepared with some sort of dinner.

"Ah…that you've had two visitors and she told them you would be back the first of the month…that you've a pile of mail upon your bedside table as she won't have it cluttering up the hall table downstairs or getting tea spilt on it on the table in the sitting room…that she's fixing soup and sandwiches for dinner and you had better not have eaten on the train…and that you made a dreadful mess of your room before leaving and if it happens again she shall leave it as-is for you to return to," he finished with a wickedly impish smirk.

I had to laugh, more at his obvious enjoyment of my censuring than out of entertainment of the content of the message.

"She missed you, I think," he translated helpfully.

"No doubt," I replied dryly.

"How was the trip?"

"Profitable," I answered guardedly. "Though I have to say I don't care much for country fare or atmosphere. No people about, and so on."

"I thought you didn't _like_ having people about," he retorted.

"Not in close proximity, no – but I should like to at least know I am not the only living thing on the planet besides the odd Guernsey for the space of ten miles each direction," I said in disgust, remembering my too-familiar acquaintance of this past week. My client had much to answer for.

"Cold been bothering your head at all?"

"No, _Doctor_," I emphasized the title with more warmth than before. "Country air and all that, you know."

He chuckled and settled back beside me, exhaling in a small sigh that sent the errant snowflakes dancing over the horse's back in front of us.

Then silence…how I hated those silences…I attempted awkwardly to think of something to say that was not trite or pointless…

"So…" I gulped uneasily and tried again. "How have you been?" _Oh, brilliant. You might as well ask what the weather's been like._

He glanced sideways at me, and I resisted the urge to squirm under the look. Did he know I was fumbling so desperately for conversation, or was he genuinely pleased that I had asked?

"Better – evidently the wind left on the same train with you last week and that helped with the pain quite a bit," he replied quietly. "It's been rather mild of late, and I've been able to get to St. Bart's and the library a few times…took a walk in Hyde Park yesterday, and I only had to stop to rest once on the way back."

"What were you doing at Bart's?" I asked in surprise. Then, suddenly realising how that might be perceived, I hastily began backpedaling. "Not that it's any of my business, Doctor –"

"It's perfectly all right, Holmes," he replied in amusement, allowing his eyes to twinkle at my embarrassment. "Once I met Stamford for lunch…I was in the area and he happened to be as well. And…" he paused, frowned for a moment. "And…well…I suppose I just don't want to lose my touch, as it were. I'm thinking of volunteering there or at a local charity hospital once or twice a week – I'd like to be able to help others and myself at the same time, by keeping in practice."

"That, Doctor, is a pun unworthy even of _you_," I said with an entirely sober face and two raised eyebrows. Hah, I _could_ make conversation, if it involved ensnaring another person in his own words (as the less quick-witted of the Yarders no doubt could tell anyone)!

I was startled and (I do admit it, I love getting reactions from people, pleasant or otherwise) inordinately pleased to hear him laugh aloud, a vibrantly rich burst of merriment that I was not even aware the chap was capable of making. Not that he had been moody during the last month (I was fairly certain _I_ owned the monopoly on all the darker emotions), but just had been prey to a sort of depressed apathy for the majority of the time I had seen him.

"That is horrible!"

"Yes, I know, but I have spent an entire week buried in a rural town outside of Darlington with only a client and his dear loving Judy for company," I replied with a grin.

"Judy?"

"A prized heifer who has an odd propensity to ram all non-natives to the area with her head. Or so I was told. Which theory I was stupid enough to test, unfortunately."

"Oh."

"I have to say I was rather glad the old girl was indeed a heifer and not a bull," I remarked thoughtfully.

"Naturally."

He obviously was struggling valiantly to suppress another fit of laughter, but apparently the sensation was contagious for we both dissolved at last into a spurt of extremely childish snickering; he at my matter-of-fact description of a bizarre situation and I at his unquestioning acceptance of the fact. I rather believe I could tell the man anything and he believe me – save for the fact that the sun moves round the earth.

I believe the cabby's barely audible mutterings as we exited in front of 221B Baker Street contained an assortment of "barmy," "nutters," and a variety of dubious Cockney swear words.

Mrs. Hudson's reaction to two full-grown gentlemen stumbling into her clean hallway, dripping all over her linoleum and sniggering like a couple of overgrown school-boys, would take another full (and heavily-censored) entry in this journal. That woman is absolutely extraordinary; she went from screeching about the mess to chastening me about the state of my bedroom to fussing over Watson's limp to nearly pushing us both up the stairs for supper – all in the space of forty-three seconds.

And, as the hour is late and as I had a thoroughly arduous journey this morning…and because I am under the feeling that I thoroughly embarrassed myself at more than one instance this evening, despite the fact that it actually was rather enjoyable for once…I believe I shall now turn in and sleep on the matter.


	21. February 3, 1881

_February 3, 1881_

_7:35 p.m._

It was unfortunate that the mild weather of yesterday decided it had given London enough of a respite…either that or the dark clouds were merely following _me_, as apparently the storm left with my departure and returned upon my arrival last night. I am aware that the mood of a room darkens when I enter it, but this is slightly in the extreme, I would venture to say.

Regardless, it was a bitterly frosty morning, so chilly that it was the cold itself that woke me and not a noise. I awakened shortly after half-past six, absolutely freezing even under the down comforter and afghan upon my bed, and lost no time in donning my thickest dressing-gown and woolen socks and then hastening to the sitting room.

Mrs. Hudson had lit the fire, though obviously not long ago as it had not yet dissipated the frost on the mantel mirror. I snatched the _Times_, lit my pipe, and pulled my chair as close to the fire as I could without singeing the fabric of the thing. I had only just settled on the chair with my legs safely tucked under me when the door opened and the Doctor entered, rubbing his eyes sleepily as if just waking. I was quite surprised to see him mobile this early in the day, but judging from his disgruntled expression he was not likely to stay that way for very long.

Specially if I had anything to do with it. I do _so_ love being exasperating!

"_Good_ morning," I chirped mischievously, and far too cheerfully.

"'S not morning…can't possibly be…" he muttered, squinting at the clock. Upon seeing that it was not yet seven he moaned dismally and glared at my apparent perkiness (actually I was as grumpy as he, but it was considerably more fun to be irritating than commiserating), which only served to amuse and encourage me further.

"_No one_ should be up at this hour," he muttered grouchily.

"Then why are you?"

"'S freezing up there," he said with a shiver. "Came down to get another blanket."

"There are two in the tops of our wardrobes," I informed him helpfully. "At least that's what Mrs. Hudson said."

He glanced up for an instant before dropping his gaze, but not before I had seen embarrassment suffuse his features.

"I can't reach them," he murmured ruefully, his left hand clenching convulsively.

"Oh…" I trailed off uncomfortably, inwardly cursing myself for my colossal lack of tact. "Erm…"

I fumbled awkwardly for close to ten seconds for the proper thing to say that would not insult him. "That probably should be rectified at some point this winter, eh?" I finally ventured in a lighter tone.

"Would you mind?"

I blinked in surprise – he must really be cold (or else only half-conscious), to lower his prideful defenses enough to actually ask – but I got up from my chair amiably enough. I'd nothing better to do anyway, moving about would warm me at least a little, and who knows when one may need a favour returned sometime? It does no harm to build up a credit in that area; heaven knows I shall in all probability need to draw on said credit before too long.

I followed him back up the stairs, trying my best not to be impatient with his plodding slowness (I could barely feel my fingers by the time we finally did reach the top), and entered the room, striding to the wardrobe and opening it.

"My word," I finally managed as I yanked the woolen covers down from the top shelf – it _was_ too high; even without a bad shoulder I was not at all sure he was tall enough to reach the things. "It really is cold up here!" Honestly, I cannot see how the man slept up there at all – I should have frozen stiff before morning were it I. Either the fellow is hardier than he looks, or else war enabled him some amazing powers of mental detachment that would rival even mine.

"While you were gone I slept in the sitting room a couple nights," he admitted with a shiver as I tossed the afghans down onto the bed.

"You may have to again yet," I muttered, eyeing the snow shooting past the windows with suspicion. Despite the flowers and young lovers that accompanied the disgusting season, I for one was more than ready for spring.

"Thank you," he called sleepily after me as I shivered and hastily vanished from the icebox of a room, rubbing my arms vigourously.

I did not bother to answer, intent upon making the sitting room before I froze into a permanent addition to the hall decor. Within two minutes I was curled up once again in my still-cold armchair, waiting impatiently for the room to warm enough to move about without danger of hypothermia.

Our landlady did know the proper way to build a fire, however (thank goodness), and within a half-hour I could no longer see my breath upon exhalation. I ventured from the circle of warmth to snatch the pile of post from my bedside table, hastily returning to the seat to go through the stack.

Hah, a notice that my account had finally (they did emphasize the word _finally_) been cleared at the Museum…telegram from Mycroft informing me that a distant fifth cousin had died in France (I did not even recognise the name, why should I care?)…subpoena from the prosecutor for Wilder and his gang's trial later in the week (though I did not much look forward to using my fishy imprisonment in that warehouse as public testimony; how embarrassing!)…thank-you letter from my female client (unfortunately, we had located dear Bertie and he was not in a fit state to be taken anywhere but to an interrment) containing the rest of my fee and informing me that she had gotten a new cockatoo named Louis, etc., etc., and she owed everything to me, etc., etc. (I pocketed the pound-notes and threw the remainder into the fire unwept, unhonoured and unsung)…three letters from various correspondents and informants in the criminal fraternity…

Now _those_ would be more interesting reading, but at the moment I was not in the mood to peruse them, as coffee would be arriving shortly and I still had four unopened letters from whom I hoped were clients to examine. But if I shoved them into my pocket I should forget all about them (and likely their fate would match the notes I had last week scribbled on my shirt-cuff); and if I put them into a stack of books or paper, God only (and perhaps not even He) would know where they would end up and in what condition…

Ha, I had it. I snatched my jack-knife and carefully impaled the letters onto the end of the mantel. Now when I reached for my pipe I would most definitely see them in my direct line of vision, and they would never be able to get mislaid in that particular position. Simplicity itself.

It only occurred to me halfway through breakfast that perhaps Mrs. Hudson might not be appreciative of my defacing the furnishings, though the scratch is hardly visible unless one is looking for it (the knife is somewhat more visible than the scratch it covers). Luckily, the woman has not yet seen my impromptu method of reminding myself to respond to said letters.

The Doctor did notice this evening, but I was greatly amused to see him merely raise that same eyebrow I have so often been on the receiving end of thus far in our acquaintance and mutter "Most men would simply tie a string round their fingers, but..."

I did try that, once…and promptly forgot what the blazes the string was supposed to remind me of. This method is certainly much better, for there is no possible way I can forget now.

The rest of the post I read over breakfast – three of the missives were indeed from potential clients, for which I am especially excited. One of which I solved merely from the detailed letter itself, coupled with the information I already knew about the family in question (good old index!) and the elder son's filthy and far too public habits. An extremely easy armchair fee; how I love those!

The other two will certainly bear looking into, and I have sent telegrams setting up appointments with each client for tomorrow. Apparently my name is becoming more well-known by the week, as one of the two heard of me from a previous client. I might actually make a good living at this yet, and _without_ the help of Scotland Yard and its messes.

Finishing up the business I had left undone during my week of absence and unpacking my valise took the better part of the morning, and it was shortly after luncheon that I bundled up warmly to spend the day tramping the city. I had not been on such an excursion in quite a while, and as the snow had stopped around eleven it was a perfect day to run about observing and increasing my knowledge of the city's byways and alleys.

As it was nearing two, and the Doctor still had not come down from his room, I thought it prudent to check before I left and make sure the chap had not frozen to death in his bed (I should not like to see Mrs. Hudson's reactions to _that_!).

How the devil the man could sleep with the sun streaming through the blinds like that astounds me…and more so how he can stomach wasting half the day like that, accomplishing absolutely nothing.

But I had other, more pressing, matters to hand than pondering his indolent habits, and so closed the door and descended to the street, whence I turned up my collar, chose a direction at random, and began to walk briskly. The wind had died down to a small whistle and the temperature was, though a bit invigorating, more than bearable with the appropriate amount of mental detachment, and I spent the better part of the afternoon in a pastime that I never tired of.

To become the best possible in my profession, a complete, precise, and exact knowledge of London and all it secrets is absolutely paramount. I have not yet completely committed the basic map of the city to memory, but I am working my way in that direction. I targeted the West End this afternoon (as I have spent more time in the dock areas than is entirely healthy the last month), attempting to get straight in my head the various streets and byways and what major buildings they house. No pun intended.

So engrossed was I in this experiment that I did not actually notice dusk was falling (that is another reason I hate winter, fewer hours of active working time) until the lamp-lighters began to perform their nightly duties.

I made double time across London to reach home before the temperature dropped yet again, but a few blocks away from Baker Street I was suddenly accosted by a very irate little street urchin, who pounced upon me as if collaring a runaway dog.

"Hoi! Where you been, Mr. 'Olmes?" the little scalawag demanded peremptorily. "Yer ol' lady wouldn' tellus where you been, an' –"

I sighed and pried the grubby child off my arm. "Charles. I don't live in Montague any more, I've moved to a house on Baker Street," I managed to interject in the ceaseless flow of half-intelligible chatter.

I received a slow blink. "Cor, tha's good fer business, then," the child smirked.

"No one asked you, young man," I retorted in annoyance at his derogatory tone. "Now run along. I told Wiggins I would send for you when I had something for you to do."

"Oi know, but it's been slow pickin's these days," the lad groused, glancing interestedly (no doubt gauging his chances) at my watch-pocket.

I sighed and fumbled in my wallet with partially numb fingers, withdrawing a shilling and dropping it into the child's hand.

"Now scarper," I directed sternly, shoving the child in the direction of his fellow urchins' lodgings.

The lad smirked again at me and before darting off handed me my keys, which he apparently had removed from my coat-pocket when I was engaged in prying his other grimy arm off me. Sneaky little devils, those boys.

I was rather cold by the time I got home, my nose and chin numb, but in much better spirits for I felt I had actually done a good day's work. The sight of a blazing fire in the sitting room and a hot pot of tea did wonders to increase the feeling as well. Simple comforts that one does not fully appreciate until one has spent a week in the country with only a garrulous client, a friendly neighbourhood murderer, and a grumpy cow named Judy for company and a draughty farmhouse for shelter against the arctic elements.

This time I remembered to snatch a cup of tea on the way to the fire, to beat the Doctor to doing it if he took it into his head to He was seated at his desk by the window, a blanket round his shoulders, scribbling furiously in something, and he glanced up as I entered, nodding in greeting. _About time he roused himself._

"Two telegrams came for you, they're on your desk," he remarked over his shoulder, scrawling his name at the bottom of the paper and folding it.

I warmed my fingers and drank the tea before attempting to open the wires – confirmations of tomorrow's appointments. Very good.

"Is it very bitter out there?" I heard him ask as I set the yellow forms down.

"Mm, not as bad as it was this morning. I was out in it all afternoon and didn't contract hypothermia, at least," I shrugged, rubbing my hands together and holding them out to the blaze.

"Why in the world would you voluntarily walk about all afternoon in it?" he inquired in disbelief, licking the envelope and affixing a stamp to it before dropping it on the silver tray just inside the door for Mrs. Hudson to take.

"I pride myself on having an exact and thorough knowledge of the London geography," I replied matter-of-factly. "And there is no better way to learn than experience, or so I am told."

"True," he agreed thoughtfully. "There is also no more dangerous way to learn."

"Also true." Strange how that man's mind works in devious channels.

He sighed and glanced out of the window at the swirling snow – not the large fluffy flakes of yesterday but small icy clouds of white sandy particles. "I do wish it were spring already," he said wistfully. "Coming back from Afghanistan to _this_…"

I tapped the stem of my unlit pipe to my lips thoughtfully, for indeed the geographical climate difference had not occurred to me until now. No wonder he was feeling the change so keenly – from desert to frozen tundra could not be pleasant to a fully healthy person, much less a half-invalided one.

"Perhaps you should holiday inland a little further - the cold and snow would not be as bad."

"Holiday? On a war pension?" he asked with a bitter smile. "Not a chance. Besides, holidaying is not enjoyable when one is all alone."

Again I was startled, enough to pause so long in lighting my pipe that the match burnt my fingers. I cursed under my breath and tossed it into the fire, striking another and pondering the oddity of the words.

Granted, I was not one for holidaying at all; for when one enjoyed work as much as I, who wanted to ruin the pleasure by sudden deprivation of it? I should go mad from inactivity were I forced to take a vacation. The very thought disgusts me.

But if I were going to, I most definitely would not want anyone else tagging alone to ruin what little enjoyment I should get out of the enforced solitude, the peace and quiet and uninterrupted time for reflection.

But…apparently we differed in opinions there, for the loneliness in his voice was so patently obvious that even I could recognise it. The man must indeed be going mad with being trapped inside all the day, with no acquaintances to break up the monotony of getting up, breakfasting, doing whatever he did during the day, and then going to bed once more. I no longer wondered why he slept so late every morning – there was no reason for him _not_ to, after all.

And coming from the action-filled lifestyle and the comradeship of the army, no doubt that loneliness made this frigid isolation even more unbearable for him.

The man really needs to find a hobby, or some work at least, and a few friends. I wonder if Stamford could connect him with a few fellow medicos…I certainly can be of no help in the matter as I have no friends or acquaintances to introduce him to. Nor would I if I did, for then I should be obligated to continue the process or be dragged into a social life I have absolutely no desire to ever be a part of.

On second thought, actually, perhaps it is much better that he remains lonely, for I do not want all sorts of visitors tramping about my flat and holding loud conversations, interrupting my work, destroying my solitude for thought…no, no, no, that simply will not do.

I pity the type of fellow that must have people constantly around him to be happy – thank heaven _I_ am not a part of that temperament; I could live in perfect contentment, in solitude for the rest of my existence.

Mmph, I must go now – the Doctor just bellowed through the doorway that dinner _a la Mrs. Hudson_ is on its way up the stairs. I do hope it is something extremely hot, as it looks to be another frigid night.


	22. February 4, 1881

_February 4, 1881_

_9:50 p.m._

I am considering compiling a comprehensive list of all possible non-vocal noises and movements that can signify deep vexation, since tonight has given me a first-rate field of study for them.

My fellow-lodger's evident favourites of said list appear to be variants of sighs, barely perceptible moans, shifting in his seat, and pinching the bridge of his nose. I'd no idea I was actually irritating him quite to that extent until a rather clear combination of the above drew my hitherto unfocused attention and I began to count how often in the space of one minute he gave vent to such utterances.

It in all honesty never occurred to me until tonight that perhaps my scraping out random augmented chords upon my violin was not altogether pleasant to a listening ear – _I_ certainly never listened to the notes before, as they are merely used to spur my thinking processes along their tracks.

Finally, when the novel idea did break through the cloud of deep thought that had obscured the recesses of my mind, I glanced up just in time to see a look of deep annoyance flash across the Doctor's face as he winced at an _A minor diminished seventh_ chord, and his brow furrowed frustratedly as he tried to concentrate on his novel (how many of those yellow-backed volumes does the man own, for the love of literature?).

This annoyed reaction from him had obviously been going on for as long as I had been sitting here cogitating the problem at hand (…my word, it had been close to two hours!) and he had not yet lost his temper with me; the idea of a never-ending wellspring of patience both intrigued and fascinated me, and I wondered deviously how much longer he could hold out without allowing that temper of his to break down the doors of its prison.

This interesting hypothesis in mind, I decided (purely out of a scientific desire for experiment, not any real malice or mischief) to test the theory and began plowing eagerly back into my scraping, eyeing him over the top of the instrument with growing anticipation as my bow screeched and twanged the strings haphazardly.

Sixteen minutes and thirteen seconds later, after a series of staccato and very loud _F sharp augmented 9_ chords in various inversions, his nerve (and patience) finally broke. I made a note of the time.

"Honestly, Holmes! With a talent such as yours, why the deuce are you wasting your time and my patience in such an annoying and audibly painful pastime?"

The strangely phrased demand actually shocked me into stopping the scraping – the man was complimentary even when angry (could nothing I do warrant an outburst that I could take offense at? This could grow to be dreadfully dull.). Two hours and sixteen minutes was the length of time it had taken for him to lose his temper (if one could call it losing a temper; it was more like misplacing it than losing it) – I made a note of that so as to not push the man quite so far on an evening such as this again unless I particularly wished to perform a dangerous experiment in old soldiers' longsufferance of frustrating consulting detectives.

Granted, it was bitterly cold and no doubt that invariably made him more irritable than if he had been able to get out during the day, or if his healing injuries had not been so painful. Probably in the spring he would have a bit more tolerance, but until warm weather arrived I could not (well, I could, but even I am not so foolish as to openly beg to be kicked out of the house, warm weather or no) test the fact. It was something to do of an evening in about a month, though, I fancied with a streak of mischief

For now, I repressed the grin of triumph that had come unbidden to my face and adopted an air of affected repentant martyrdom. An acting job, naturally, but I was as good as they come in such matters and he never knew.

I hope.

"My apologies, Doctor, I am afraid my mind was wandering," I apologised graciously, quite proud of the repentant and slightly aggrieved tone of my voice – perfection itself.

"So I could hear," he replied dryly, glaring tetchily at me.

"Would you allow me to compensate you for the trial upon your patience, or would you prefer I make myself scarce now?" I asked (half-seriously, for I was legitimately curious as to his preference).

"No, no, don't go," he sighed wearily, dropping the book unheeded to the floor beside the couch and putting a hand to his eyes. "I am sorry for losing my temper like that – I've been on edge all day and you just happened to be in the way when I went off the deep end, that's all. My apologies."

Whatever I had been expecting him to say, it was certainly not anything close to an apology for what I thought was a very reasonable reaction to my eccentric and occasionally grating habits. The man continues to surprise me every day. I am not quite certain I like the fact.

But I noticed suddenly that his left hand was clenched on the side of the sofa so tightly that the tanned knuckles were turning white, and now that I actually looked _at_ him instead of _over_ him as I habitually did, his whole reclined posture was rigid and stiffly painful – the weather must be about to change and he of course could feel the fact keenly. While I was glad for all our sakes that a warm front might possibly be moving in, it did not alter the fact that this had to have been an unpleasant evening for him (not just due to my impromptu experiment in forbearance) and was not likely to be a painless night either.

I lifted the instrument to my shoulder and positioned the bow, glancing at him over it once more. "Do you mind?"

He waved me off hastily with his right hand, rubbing his head with it when he had done. "No, not at all. Go right ahead, please."

I rummaged through my brain-attic's many files for the list of songs I had taken note of that he seemed especially to enjoy – I was not feeling anything akin to remorse for my experiment (I am not sure I would know the feeling if it did hit me, besides), but merely a knowledge that fair play demanded some slight reparation for my invasive test.

Once I had located the list of compositions, I began to play, hoping to put him to sleep so that I could resume my thinking about the two cases that had been drawn to my attention earlier in the day with my two appointments.

Three minutes and twenty-four seconds into the music, his hand unclenched from the couch. After another four minutes he was breathing evenly, his eyes closed. I gave it another three or four minutes for good measure and then exchanged the instrument for my oldest pipe, stuffing it thickly with tobacco (honestly, I simply _must_ find something to keep the leaves in, as that is the second time this week I have nearly flung the stuff all about the room trying to get the wedged lid off the tin) and putting a match to it before returning to my chair and beginning to go over the details of the cases in my head.

I had already determined it was the housemaid who had taken the stolen ruby-studded gilded apple from the fruit basket in my client's boudoir, but how the thing had turned up in a pawn-broker's in Brixton I had no idea, as a maid pawning such an item would be sure to be remembered, and the description the pawn-broker had given me of the girl who brought the piece in was definitely not that of the dumpy and rather befreckled housemaid. What the connection was between the two women, I had no idea, but I was most definitely going to find out.

The other case, a petty little attempted murder, was patently obvious from the moment I perceived the badly-trampled footmarks under the gentleman's window, together with the perceptibly fabricated story about the dueling pistol missing from the gun-room; an obvious blind, and one not even a beginner would fall for. Simplicity itself, and I had already sent a message to the police telling them where they could pick up the murderer later tonight if they would meet me at the house in the rhododendrons by the window. Speaking of which, I am running out of time to finish this entry.

I wanted to have reached a conclusion about the ruby apple matter before I am to leave, but after two hours of filling the sitting room with a darkling haze I had reached no possible theory that would cover all the facts as I know them – therefore I am missing _something_, and at this point it will have to wait until tomorrow, as I am to leave in a half-hour for my client's home to apprehend a killer.

I had better go and gather my revolver and other supplies as well as a warm overcoat and muffler, for the warm spell that the Doctor's internal barometer predicted has not yet begun to wend its way into the metropolis and I really have no desire to freeze to death before morning.

* * *

_10:15 p.m._

I cannot find my revolver…I dearly hope I did not mislay it in a place where Mrs. Hudson is liable to find it and shriek enough to be heard in Bow Street; I am not even sure she is aware that I own one, though she did find out the hard way about the scimitar in the umbrella stand (remind me to put _that_ story down in here at some point when once my ears have stopped burning!).

Perhaps I can ask the Doctor to attempt to find it whilst I am gone tomorrow tracing the movements of a certain housemaid (heaven knows he could use the work to do)…I shall need a disguise, a workman of some kind, or perhaps a groom. Which means I may need to run out early tomorrow to get some supplies, as I am nearly out of putty.

The wind has started to die down apparently, but the temperature has not yet begun to slow its plummeting. It is going to be a miserable night if the current trend keeps up.

When I came back to the sitting room from tearing my bedroom apart looking for my heaviest muffler, the Doctor had not even stirred from his position upon the couch. The man will freeze to death before morning, warm front or no warm front, without any cover; and I doubt if he could climb the stairs in that condition anyhow.

So after making sure I had the time to spare – fifteen minutes, give or take a few seconds, yes plenty – I darted up the stairs and hauled the down comforter off his bed (Mrs. Hudson will no doubt raise Cain about it in the morning until her soft-heartedness perceives the Doctor sleeping on the couch, and then I shall be in the clear) and returned with it (nearly killing myself by tripping on it on the fifth stair and using it in a method reminiscent of a flying magic carpet the rest of the way, may I add), somehow landing safely in the sitting room and tossing it over him before preparing to leave.

It amused me to no end when he did not wake up but merely muttered in his sleep and huddled down under it, despite the fact that he has by his own admission stated that he is an extremely light sleeper. I am not sure whether his unusually deep slumber is a _tribute_ or an _insult_ to my violin playing – I shall have to ponder the matter whilst I am attempting to tune out Tobias Gregson's ramblings in the vigil tonight.

As I have no idea when I shall be back (or _if_ I shall be back tonight, if the man leads us a merry chase through the neighbourhood), that will have to do; at least if he becomes ill it is not for my lack of trying to prevent the fact and no one can lay the blame upon my doorstep. Or rather, my bedroom, as we share the same doorstep.

I do hope the warm spell comes tonight before we freeze to death in a midnight vigil outside a man's house, waiting for a murderer. Not the most pleasant method of death I would choose, I must say.

And as I am going to be late, and if I _am_ Gregson will never let me hear the end of it and the entire societal hierarchy of the Yard will know by midday tomorrow, I must run.


	23. February 5, 1881

_February 5, 1881_

_1:15 p.m._

My brother told me on multiple occasions when we were adolescents that the way one begins the day colours the mood of every event following thereafter (the example he most frequently used was that of a person arising hungry, he would be irritable and hungry the entire day – but somehow I rather think that was more personal than philosophical and a warning for me to not attempt any attacks upon his person or his breakfast).

This is an outright lie, which I shall be very delighted to point out to him when next I turn up in his flat to perform my monthly fraternal annoy-fest.

I can state this fallacy with all truth, for I proved it wrong this morning – I woke up in the foulest of tempers and the day somehow magically turned itself round into a very entertaining morning. How this fantastic process was accomplished, I have no idea, but when I do find the solution I shall take great pride in informing my know-all elder brother that he is one hundred percent _wrong_.

But to begin in the beginning. Surprisingly enough, I returned to the flat shortly after one, our night's work having gone both more swiftly and a trifle more violently than I had expected. I came off with a slightly sore face, but as our American cousins would put it, you should see the other fellow.

The estimable Inspector Gregson, to my amusement, missed the entire fracas due to his coat getting stuck in the bushes when we jumped out to grab the would-be murderer. I left him, swearing and spitting, and dispatched our quarry myself, subsequently earning me no more than a snide remark and a ride back to Baker Street alone (which actually was far less of a punishment than one would think – it is very much worth having to pay the fare if one may be bereft of dense Scotland Yard company).

The warm front had indeed begun to move in on the grateful city, for the eaves and awnings of every building were dripping so steadily and so heavily it looked as if rain were already falling, though the clouds had not yet gathered into a storm-bank by the time I reached the house (thank goodness, as I had neglected to take my umbrella).

The temperature was noticeably warmer inside this night than it had been last, for which I was grateful, and it was with some tiny sense of accomplishment and contentment that I changed quickly and fell into bed for a well-deserved night's rest.

I was rudely and unpleasantly awakened the next morning by a deafening clap of thunder and a sudden blast of wet wind rushing through the open door to my bedroom – I had forgotten to close the connecting door between my chamber and the sitting room the preceding night.

_That thunder should not have been anywhere __near__ that loud_ was my first muzzy thought, followed by the realisation that a steady humid breeze was sending my curtains flapping like bannerettes in the wind. I threw on my dressing gown (only realising later it was inside-out) in the darkness and stumbled into the grey sitting room, barely registering that it was nearing ten of the morning though next to no light was showing due to the storm.

"What _in heaven's name_ are you doing?" I voiced this statement in a tone that could only be described as yowling, I am afraid, but in my defense I had good reason to be horrified.

The Doctor had the sitting room window_ wide open_, and was standing in front of it, looking out at the dripping world.

"It's _raining!_" he cried, turning half-round to look at me with the excitement of a child seeing snow on Christmas Eve.

"Outdoors _and_ in," I growled, indicating the puddle under the window with a pointing finger.

"Oh. Erm…right." He hastily slammed the window down, thankfully cutting off the damp air from blowing the papers about the room – those of them that had not been sprinkled upon, anyway. "Sorry. But it's raining!"

"Doctor, my vision remains completely unimpaired despite having been rudely awoken by a ponderous clap of thunder," I said pointedly, stalking to the table and pouring myself a cup of coffee. A _large_ one, and which I drank _black_.

I regretted my harsh tone when his elated face fell and shame seeped into it instead. "I'm sorry, I didn't know it would be that loud…" he murmured apologetically, his eyes on the puddle seeping into the carpeting.

I hastily headed off an uncomfortable apology-dance around each other with a wave of the hand. "Never mind, Doctor. I am up now, and yes, the city _is_ drowning. Is there a logical reason I should be as enthusiastic about the matter as you obviously are?"

In all seriousness, I could not see the reason for his jubilation – he was clearly limping far worse than normal due to the atmospheric pressure changes, and it was not as if he could venture out in this mess unless the deluge let up a bit.

He blushed in apparent embarrassment, which amused me greatly. "I'm just glad to see the cold leaving us, if only for a while," he muttered, glancing out the window. "It feels like spring."

"It is only _February_, Doctor," I said dryly, "and this is _London_. In case you cannot remember what the natural state of the climate is like here, I would advise you to not count on the weather lasting in any particular direction for more than a half-hour."

He grinned indulgently at my realistic pessimism and turned away from the window while I went to the mantel for my first pipe. Heaven knew I would need something stronger than tobacco if he were to be this chipper all day long – I could not wait to get out of the house and after the remaining case I had…

I whirled round suddenly in some alarm as a resounding crash broke the stillness behind me, followed by a small muffled moan of pain and then a burst of the most colourful swearing I have heard from a well-bred gentleman in a very long time.

I winced in involuntary sympathy as I saw that apparently the poor fellow's balance had been off when he turned, or else his leg had simply given out with his enthusiastic exertions of the morning; for he was raising himself on one elbow with an expression of suppressed pain and prideful resentment that was clearly visible to me even in the grey watery light.

"I have to admit I've never heard _quite_ that particular assortment of words from a civilian, Doctor – something you learnt in the army, is it?" I ventured awkwardly in an attempt to lighten the storm of frustration I could see brewing upon his face, as he glared at the offending limb in self-conscious humiliated anger.

His embarrassed fury faded a little upon my words to a look of slightly rueful bitterness, and I breathed a sigh of relief, walking leisurely back toward him – not too quickly as that would make it appear I did not think him capable of getting up on his own (he very well might _not_ be, but it would be dreadfully insulting if I were to let him know I thought so).

"Not offended your refined sensibilities, have I?" he queried somewhat breathlessly, beginning to sit up stiffly.

I laughed – if only he knew what I heard frequently in my rambles about the vilest alleys of London. "Not at all, Doctor."

Without thinking of what I was doing (acting impulsively is _not_ a habit I often indulge in, and I still cannot figure out for the life of me why I did it _this _time), I snatched a towel from the tea-tray (obviously it had been used as protection for one's hands from the heat, bless Mrs. Hudson's thoughtful heart) and tossed it to him.

"Here, while you're down there anyway you can clean up that puddle you permitted to form on the floor during your enthusiastic greeting of your precious zephyr," I said with a grin.

For a moment after I (cringed and) realised what I had done, I was deathly afraid he would take offense at my teasing, but after a blink of slow surprise the rest of his anger faded and he chuckled in easy amusement, leaning over and beginning to mop up the rain that was disappearing into the floor.

I was very glad he had not been insulted by my hasty words, for I had no inkling of what to say that would not sound condescending or pitying, both of which would have been utterly abhorrent to him and would have only fueled the fire of his self-frustration.

When he had finished cleaning up the damp spot on the carpet, he held the towel up for me to take from him. I repressed a devious smile and, instead of closing my hand round the cloth, I did so around his wrist instead, nonchalantly pulling him back to his feet without making any sort of great fuss about it.

After his initial stiffening at the unexpected physical contact (which I found amusing, as usually that reaction belonged to me), he relaxed and scrambled awkwardly back to a standing position, wincing only once and then steadying himself against the wall as I dropped his arm.

"Thank you," he said brusquely, which I waved off as I had his apology of earlier. I sat at the table, refilling my cup and extinguishing my forgotten pipe before it caught the newspapers afire.

He shuffled eagerly to take the seat across from me, and I absently shoved the coffee-pot his direction as I opened the _Standard_. I had no time to even glance over the agony column, however, before Mrs. Hudson entered the room, turning up the gas to its fullest, sending a bright yellow glow to dispel the greyness, and setting the breakfast tray on the table.

I merely lifted the paper to let her put my empty plate and silver under my arm, trying to read despite the constant jiggling of the page by various items being placed upon the table. I barely registered an affronted sniff from the lady and a murmured apology or thank-you (probably both) from the Doctor before the woman vanished, shutting the door with rather more force than was necessary. What was the matter with her?

Finally I found the advertisement I was looking for, one I suspected as being the last in a series of smuggling locations Lestrade had asked me to keep an eye out for – I should have to talk to him when I went to the trial tomorrow. I marked the advertisement by stabbing it twice with my fork and then hurled the folded paper in the general vicinity of my desk for future clipping before turning back to the breakfast table.

The Doctor was already halfway through his plate, apparently, and I hastily snatched the last of the eggs and a sausage before he took the idea into his head that I was not hungry. Finally he glanced up, seeing my face for the first time without a paper between us or the very dim light before our landlady had turned up the gas, and his sharp eyes grew wide and even sharper over his coffee-cup.

"What the devil did you do to yourself now?" he asked, nearly choking on the drink as he lowered it to look incredulously at me.

I was aware that I had a bruise over my left eye, though thankfully not an actual black eye. Now to decide whether to tell the truth, the whole truth, or anything but the truth…

I rejected the wicked idea of informing him I had run into something in the dark upon being so rudely awakened this morning, knowing it would induce unwarranted guilt on his part. Perhaps just a slight bit of the truth – I should like to gauge his reaction to finding out another of my hidden talents, at any rate.

"I got into a bit of a scrap last night when I was out, after you fell asleep. I was running some late errands and ran into a fellow who was out for either blood or money, and he didn't much care which," I said cheerfully. That was true at least – it had just not been _my_ blood he was actually after but my client's.

I received another raised eyebrow as he paused with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. "And you got off only with one bruise? How big was the other chap?"

I watched with amusement as the eggs fell off his fork while he spoke, causing him to insert an empty utensil in his mouth and then glare at the poor innocent thing as if it were solely the fork's fault that he had stabbed his tongue.

"Mm, roughly two inches taller than I and a stone or two heavier," I hazarded with a shrug, finishing my sausage and spearing another while he was distracted with his fork-troubles.

He almost choked on the next mouthful when I said this last. "And you came off looking no worse than that?"

I nodded in some amusement and some pride. "And _he_ went to the police station in a wagon, out cold and sporting what probably this morning has come to light as a rather unattractive assortment of latent bruises," I informed him with glee at the remembrance.

"You'll pardon me if I find that hard to believe," he said incredulously, glancing meaningfully at my less-than-burly figure.

"I daresay you would be surprised at how well I box, Doctor."

"You? _Box_? You can't be serious."

"Oh, quite serious. Next time you are able to venture out in mild weather I could show you, with pleasure. I have beaten many a man my superiour in size in the art of fisticuffs."

"But…" he looked dubiously at me, obviously skeptical.

"I am a deal stronger than I look, Doctor," I returned calmly, "and I assure you I do not have a habit of lying about my own accomplishments. Anything I tell you regarding myself is the exact and literal truth."

I saw a spark of conniving curiousity light in the back of his eyes at my purposely dangling the temptation in front of him to ask me more about myself. I was intrigued, and not a little impressed, when he did not take my bait – but merely sat back with a tiny smirk lurking at the corners of his eyes and watched me finish the rest of my breakfast, holding his coffee in both hands and resting his elbows on the tabletop.

I wonder how long it will be before he finally breaks down and asks what I am fully aware he is dying to know about my self-imposed profession.

I shall have to see how long he can withstand my dropping hints here and there about the matter before he gives in to his (obviously immense) curiousity.

But for now, I have a disguise to don and a woman to trace from a pawn-broker's shop. It looks to be a long and wet afternoon.


	24. February 6, 1881

_A quick moment to thank all my reviewers for their kind words, but a special thanks to the two anonymous reviewers who have brightened many a morning by commenting on this – I can't respond to you through a review reply, but thank you very much!_

_And an advance warning: something of a very personal nature has come up in my life, and as a result updates to any of my stories will be sporadic at best and perhaps non-existent until next week. So if I disappear for a while, that is why. In the meantime…_

* * *

_February 6, 1881_

_6:37 p.m._

Yesterday afternoon was a capital waste of time and shoe leather – I returned home barely in time for dinner, dripping wet and with nothing to show for my efforts in solving this case. To be baulked by so petty an obstacle as rain impeding my progress in tracking this elusive woman's progress across London is galling in the extreme.

This morning I fared no better, though the weather was certainly much more pleasant; a bit brisk, but no more rain for the present at least. My entire morning was shot due to having to testify at Wilder's trial, and I was impatient to be out and working my case by the time I arrived back at the flat for a badly needed luncheon (I had skipped breakfast, much to Mrs. Hudson's horror).

"Honestly, Doctor," was my first annoyed response to finding he had opened both windows in the sitting room. "It is barely sixty degrees outside!"

"Fresh air never hurt anyone," he retorted, "specially after the haze you put in the air last night with that tar you were smoking."

I raised an eyebrow – evidently with the reviving of his spirits via the warm spell came a revelation that the fellow does have a backbone somewhere. Not many men are brave enough (or foolhardy enough) to blatantly instigate a war of words with me.

Fascinating.

"You had a caller this morning, by the way," he called after me as I entered my bedroom to remove my jacket.

"Oh? Not Lestrade, by any chance?"

"No, but you did receive a telegram, perhaps that is from him," he bellowed back, waving a yellow form at me before placing it beside my plate.

"Who then? Business, I assume?"

"Said she was a client – a Miss Violet Halverston. Petite, blonde, large blue eyes…beautiful young lady."

This last was in an extremely appreciative tone that brought a grin to my face without my intending to react. Obviously the man had an eye for a pretty face and figure (and also had seen very little of such in his enforced confinement indoors), and my latest client was in obvious possession of both.

"Yes, she is a client," I remarked, flipping the lapels of my dressing-gown right-side out and shaking the thing to get rid of the wrinkles.

"Lucky fellow," I would swear I heard him mutter as I walked into the sitting room. I repressed a smirk and sat across from him at the table, helping myself to the soup Mrs. Hudson had brought us.

"What did she want?"

"You, unfortunately," he said with a small pout that made me nearly laugh aloud.

"I assure you, Doctor, purely business."

"Mmhm."

"Watson!"

I was horrified at his obvious intimation, though I knew full well he was teasing me – the very thought of seeing an air-headed woman like that on a regular basis was utterly abhorrent. To be reduced to a driveling mess because of a female of the species was a condition I would never, if heaven gave me grace, find myself in.

He merely laughed and began to ingest his soup with gusto. Apparently the man _did_ have a personality in there somewhere – it merely went into hibernation mode along with half the animal kingdom in cold weather, only emerging when it was safe to do so without being run over or chewed to death by predators. Did that mean he no longer was wary of me as a possible predator? It was indeed a puzzle, but one that would have to wait.

A few minutes after he had dropped the subject of my client, when I could feel that the blood had faded from my face, I warily asked what exactly the woman had wanted, to which he replied that she had asked me to call again at my earliest convenience, saying that there were 'fresh developments'. Good, I could do with some new material.

Upon reaching her house an hour later, the lady informed me that now another gilded fruit was missing from the bowl in her chamber – this time a pear studded with small yellow topazes. Why women are so fond of such costly and in my opinion gaudy trinkets (I mean, honestly – fruit?) is beyond me…but if everyone were of the sensible bent that I was, I would be out a job, so one is not going to hear me complaining over-much.

This time I noticed one thing that intrigued me and also gave me a splendid clue. An odour hovering around the fruit bowl, that of a heavy, musky perfume – in extremely bad taste to be wearing during the day for it was more suited to a night at the theatre, but that tastelessness in itself was a clue. As the lady herself was not wearing that perfume and was definitely too well-bred to wear such at half-past one in the afternoon, it obviously belonged to the thief.

Its costliness would also indicate that this time the maid had not partaken of the forbidden fruit (the Doctor's sense of humour seems to be infecting me – excuse the pun) but another lady, as no maid would have the money to purchase such expensive perfume even with the cash from hawking the apple the other day.

It was worth a shot, anyway, and I lost no time in catching a cab and making all haste to No. 3 Pinchin Lane and retrieving my canine friend Toby from old Sherman, promising to have the dog back out of the wet if it began to rain again, etc., etc. Honestly, the man took better care of his animals than many men did their wives.

True to his past history with me, the ugly little beggar did not disappoint but eagerly picked up the disgustingly musky scent (probably together with whatever the woman's personal scent had been), trailing slowly to the French windows at the back of the bedroom with his nose in the air and then on through them, leaving my client looking after us in ladylike astonishment as the dog yanked me through her rose gardens toward the street.

Luck was with us, as the thief apparently had been confident enough with her prize (probably stowed in a handbag or such) to have not taken a cab but walked, and since it had not rained since yesterday late afternoon the trail was, though invisible to me, quite easy for my fat little friend to follow.

Toby waddled along carelessly for a few blocks before turning sharply, narrowly avoiding dragging me between two fruit-carters and being squashed under said carts' wheels. He then came close to pulling my arm from its socket by dragging me down another street and then another, until he paused outside a shop door, tail thumping the pavement and looking eagerly up at me for a sign of approval.

I grinned at the sign in the window and patted his head. _Jacobs and Sons, Pawnbrokers_. Good old Toby.

My approval of the ugly mongrel's efforts was soon to be shattered, however. No doubt in a few hours I shall be able to laugh at the afternoon's mishaps but at the moment I am still rather put-out.

I shall not bother here to record the details of the case, the tracing of the thief (who is behind bars, by the way, along with her two female accomplices – this must be my day for contact with women. How the Doctor would envy me!), or what transpired in the pawn shop regarding the stolen merchandise.

I _will_ put down the events that followed just after I had secured the fellow's cooperation both in handing over the stolen property to the police and in helping me track down the woman who hawked the blasted fruit.

No sooner had he handed over the pear for my inspection that I suddenly realised Toby was not sitting upon my feet anymore in front of the long counter. This was not a good thing.

It became an even worse thing when I realised the mongrel was eagerly chewing on several colourfully displayed objects at one side of the shop. Unfortunately, the pawnbroker saw this atrocity at the same time I did and was considerably less tolerant of the dog's inherently gnawing habits. Why he went after the costume instead of a femur from the skeleton hanging against the wall, for example, is a mystery even to me.

To cut a long (and embarrassingly painful) story short, I ended up having to pay for an entire outfit – robe, turban, sash, and slippers – which the little monster had taken to worrying playfully and chewing into shreds whilst my back was turned. According to the pawnbroker (I think he was lying, but there is no way to prove it), the costume had been hawked brand-new by some foreign-looking servant fellow who the man suspected had stolen it from his master before being discharged. I did not bother to ask the broker why he had bought what he suspected to be stolen property (his shop will _definitely_ bear future watching and I informed Lestrade accordingly) but merely attempted to yank the remainder of the sash out of the dog's mouth.

I noticed a spicy, musky scent – incense – on the cloth, and no doubt it had for some strange reason attracted Toby to it. _Wonderful_. I am now the owner of a very Far Eastern turban (which escaped the dog's mouth, so that is one good thing), a slightly shredded yellow and orange robe, bright green sash with yellow fringe, and one (yes, only one, for I was not about to fight a snarling dog for possession of the other) Persian slipper. _And_ it cost me close to four pounds to pay for the damaged costume.

Suffice it to say, it shall be a cold day in Hades before I use Toby again on another case, even if I have to sniff the criminal out myself with my own pathetic olfactory senses.

Toby went home to Sherman with a new chew toy, and after I had explained the situation to the man (no doubt I was slightly over-reacting and sounded rather pathetic, but the dog really should not be allowed to chew on anything he pleases – supposing I had taken him to Baker Street and he had eaten the Doctor's frock-coat?) he reasonably cut my fee for using the brute in half, which was some small consolation.

Toby returned to his kennel with his prize, and I then returned to Baker Street to dump my new acquisition to my disguise collection, vaguely noticed in passing that the Doctor had taken advantage of the milder weather to get out of the house, and then returned to begin my search anew for the elusive female pear-pawner.

Which took the rest of the afternoon – an extremely long day's work, and I very nearly did not break even on my fee due to that infernal dog's fascination with this dreadfully garish outfit. And what good is a turban and a chewed robe with no slippers to complete the ensemble?

A better question is, what am I going to do with the sole slipper?

Honestly, the Doctor has got to stop defiling my sense of humour, for that last pun was even worse than the other…

I hear him on the stairs, which means that shortly Mrs. Hudson will be arriving with tea or something else for him (the woman obviously is partial to him, for the only thing _I_ received upon my return was an admonition to not leave 'that horrid ensemble' in the middle of the floor, for she would not be picking it up). Perhaps he can think of something to do with the slipper.

_10:10 p.m._

He found my revolver! I had put this down and entered the sitting room to find him collapsed in front of the fire on the settee, breathing heavily but a healthy colour in his face that I had not seen in many days.

"Would this happen to be yours, Holmes?" he asked, holding up my weapon in a careful hand, pointed at the floor.

"Where on earth did you find it?" I asked eagerly, taking it from him.

"I _sat_ on it just now," he replied dryly. "It was stuck in between the cushion and the side of the couch. You might warn a fellow if you plan on leaving loaded weapons about where he might plant himself upon them."

I winced at the rather stern rebuke but knew it was indeed well-deserved. Despite the fact that the thing had to be cocked before it would go off, that still was not overly safe and I would not make the mistake again.

I said as much to him, and saw the wrinkles between his eyes fade in approval as I hastily emptied the two cartridges and shoved the whole mess into my desk.

"I see you walked all the way to Berkeley Square this afternoon, Doctor," I remarked out of habit, seeing the mud upon his trouser cuffs.

He had been idly flipping through the popular novel that still lay under the couch from his discarding it there the other night, but he stopped to look at me incredulously, and not a little suspiciously.

"There is no possible way you could have known that unless you were there, Holmes," he said apprehensively, eyeing me with a new wariness.

"No, no, Doctor, I was in an entirely different portion of the city this afternoon. That greyish mud upon your left trouser cuff bespeaks of that particular area of the city. Had you been in St. James or Hyde Park you would have been drenched with far more mud and a good bit of wet dead grass than just that trifling amount of muck; therefore you stuck to the pavement. There is a limit to places besides the parks that would interest a man such as yourself, which leaves only a select few locations in that part of town.

"I was in the West End myself yesterday and saw that in Berkeley Square they are in the process of digging up a small section of the pavement, and the whitish dust clinging to the bottom of your walking-stick there against the sideboard confirms the probability of that being one at least of your destinations in your afternoon excursion. If you will pardon my familiarity, I do not think you are quite recovered enough to venture much further than that on foot in your current condition; hence my conjecture that the Square was as far as you got, or close to it."

"My word, you have a sharp eye," said he admiringly, glancing first at his trousers and then at the stick in question. "And a sharper mind, apparently."

"Thank you, Doctor," I replied cheerfully, accepting the rare compliment with pleasure. I had before shown him my powers of observation, but never had I practised upon his person in his own hearing before.

When some men would have taken offense at being used for a laboratory rat in a deductive exercise, he apparently found it both intriguing and fascinating, judging by the strangely curious looks he was sending my way as I moved to my desk, only now remembering to return Lestrade's telegram of this morning, confirming that I would be in court tomorrow when the jury came out from their recess; he wanted to discuss my smuggling advertisement clue after the trial was over.

How I hate the legal process in all its forms. I believe in future I shall endeavour to keep my name out of the matter and let the officials take the credit, saving me the trouble of having to appear in court and go through all that rigmarole.

But I shall do so only my own name is well-established as the highest expert in matters of detection, naturally. Which it will.


	25. February 7, 1881

_Yes, I know I said I was not going to be around, but…fact is, I've been struggling with the death Tuesday of a dear friend and for some reason writing is helping me to not think about that, so…anyway. (shrug)_

* * *

_February 7, 1881_

_11:40 p.m._

I am not sure if it was the lateness of the hour, the storm raging outside whilst we are snug and dry indoors, the exceptionally good leg of lamb Mrs. Hudson provided for us, or the third glass of port afterwards that made me apparently wax philosophical tonight…most likely a combination of the four.

But at any rate, I would like to reproduce that (for me) unusual conversation here in such exactness as I am able to recall before I fall asleep, so that I may study it when once the effects of the evening have worn off and I am back to my normally lucid self.

Unfortunately the day began darkly, the sun evidently having bid farewell to all its greatness with a rare vengeance. The ensuing wintry rainstorm very effectively trapped us both inside until I absolutely was forced to venture out, to return to the courtroom midmorning for the conclusion of Wilder's trial. The Doctor had only just risen and was shuffling aimlessly about in his slippers and dressing-gown by the time I had rooted my umbrella out from the stand (carefully avoiding the scimitar).

"Going out in this?" he asked incredulously, but with some obvious envy at the fact that I had a _choice_ whether or not to venture into the vile mess.

"Unfortunately, yes, Doctor. Business must go on despite the tempest," said I, glaring at the pouring rain.

"Make sure you keep your head covered," he admonished, covering a yawn with his hand and glancing out the window with a woeful misery.

"Yes, Doctor," I replied dryly. "I have no plans in my near future for catching pneumonia."

"You don't catch pneumonia, you _develop_ it," I heard him mutter correctingly as he peered out at the rain dripping off the eaves. "If this keeps up, it'll drown all the flowers and everything," he said dismally.

I could not help but laugh. "Doctor. It is barely the second week of February – the tulips and so on will not be up for another month at least."

He grinned ruefully, his face flushing in some embarrassment. "Wishful thinking, I suppose. Everything is just so…grey," he remarked sadly, looking outside once more before sitting at his desk.

I had never really considered the matter before (what difference did it make to my work if it was grey or brown or chartreuse outside?), but now that he mentioned it…it was rather dreary out there. Perhaps I _should_ get a nightshade plant, at least it would be some colour in the room.

I snatched my stick and umbrella, shoved on my gloves, and was about to depart when I heard an exclamation of dismay from his direction. Under normal circumstances I would ignore it (as I usually ignored everything save the task at hand), but I had a few moments to spare and so I paused.

"Something wrong?"

"I'm out of ink," he said glumly, looking at me with the expression of a child who has eaten the last biscuit in the jar without realising it and has now come up empty-handed.

"I'm afraid I am as well – I noticed yesterday when I sent that telegram that I was nearly dry."

"Wonderful. Now what am I going to do all morning?" he moaned, resting his head on his hand and glaring most ferociously at the rain hitting the window, which cheerfully ignored him and continued splattering against the glass in mockery of his misery.

"Use a pencil? Go back to bed?" I suggested cluelessly – indeed, what was the man to do? He had to have read every book on his shelves by this time, and he did not strike me as the type that would enjoy one of my monographs.

He scowled petulantly and tossed his pen down in a fit of childish irritation. "I don't _want_ to go back to bed."

"Then don't," I retorted sensibly.

This time that formidable glare turned in my direction, and I blinked innocently at him – it really was far too entertaining to be annoying to a grumpy person, specially one whose reactions were so predictable as his were.

"I'll tell Mrs. Hudson to hurry breakfast along," I tossed the words over my shoulder with a grin as I fled down the stairs. "Eat slowly!"

"You forgot your hat!" he bellowed after me.

"I haven't the time, I'm late already!" I called back in annoyance, already near the bottom of the steps. I had an umbrella, to blazes with the hat.

"You can't run about London in a rainstorm with no headgear!" he cried in something akin to righteous horror. "Here!"

I whirled round just in time to see the article in question hurtling toward me down the stairs – how in the world had he gotten to it so quickly with that bad leg?

Unfortunately, I had not turned in time to be prepared to catch the thing, and it sailed merrily over my head and landed squarely on Mrs. Hudson's breakfast tray, which the good lady had just brought round the corner of the hall from the kitchen. I heard a low "oh, no…" from upstairs and the door shut instantly as the coward decided discretion was the better part of valour and beat a hasty retreat.

"Wonderful catch, Mrs. Hudson!" I cried mischievously, plucking the hat from the coffee-pot and mashing it down on my head with a grin at our landlady's outraged expression. I pinched a scone and then darted out the door before the squawking woman could give vent to an outraged tirade.

I did feel a bit remorseful for leaving the Doctor to face the music alone, but he _had_ thrown the thing after all and then shut the door to leave me with the dubious honour of smoothing the lady's ruffled feathers. And besides, he no doubt would simply turn on the charm with Mrs. Hudson and net himself an extra pot of coffee instead of a lecture.

The trial went more quickly than I had expected, thank heaven, and we were out of the courtroom well before noon. Lestrade had accosted me after we had been dismissed (and Wilder had been sentenced to twenty years along with several of his murderous gang!), wanting particulars both about the smuggling advertisements in the agony column of the _Standard_ and about the pawnshop that sold me a turban and one Persian slipper – a use for which I still have not found, as it is still cluttering up the space under my chemical table (if I were to put it in my wardrobe I would forget about it; hence, I have left it where I will see it. Quite logical.).

More because the Inspector offered to pay for luncheon if I would humour him and go along than out of any remote desire to eat with him and not in my own home, I acquiesced reluctantly, and we withdrew from the courtroom to the bustling street outside. The rain was still pouring down in sheets, drenching everything in sight within seconds of initial contact, and not a cab or four-wheeler or even an omnibus was to be found, so we forged our way along the sodden streets as quickly as possible afoot.

Lestrade pointed out a small café down the street, and we had nearly reached it when my eye fell upon the adjoining store – a stationer's.

"Hold up a moment, Lestrade," I said suddenly, for an idea had come to me. Why it had, and more strangely why I acted upon the impulse, remains a mystery to me that not even dinner and too much port has enabled me to come close to solving. Bah.

"Hold up, nothing," the little official growled irritably as a splash of water swung off a shop shingle and dashed him in the face. "I'll wait for you with a cup of hot lemon tea in the café!"

I waved the dripping Inspector away in some annoyance, shutting my umbrella and entering the stationer's. I snatched the first (and cheapest) bottle of black ink I could get my hands on, paid for it, and sent the lad in the back to Baker Street with it (I believe the delivery fee cost more than the ink did, confound it).

Then, that bizarre and uncalled-for action gone from my mind as quickly as it had come, I hastened through the rain to the café to meet with the Yard's (supposed) Finest. I enjoyed the stew and sandwich a deal more than the company – times like these, if they served no other purpose, at least could make me grateful for a regular dinner companion who knew when to keep his mouth shut and only opened it if he had something sensible (or at least not _inane_) to say.

Said dinner companion nearly pounced upon me when I walked in the door two hours later, frightening me into jumping backwards and slamming my person (quite painfully, I might add) into the door which I had shut automatically behind me upon entering. I believe I have the outline of the doorknob imprinted clearly upon my lower back, even now.

"Doctor, is everything all right?" I asked guardedly.

The fellow's face was wreathed in a smile so wide it threatened to split his head in half. "Thank you for sending that ink back – I was so excited!"

"_So I see_," I replied dryly, warily edging round him to divest myself of my dripping coat.

Secretly I was inordinately pleased with myself for making someone so incredibly happy by so cheap and relatively effortless a method. Were every man of my acquaintance always that simple to please, I should not have acquired the reputation of being a reticent, insufferable cynic; it was merely the fact that the work involved and the very paltry satisfaction gained afterwards from a deed of mercy did not merit an extreme amount of effort in most cases – it was not logical to expend such exertion for little or no reward.

"But who said it was for you, Doctor? I am out of the stuff as well," I said mischievously, very much enjoying the sudden look of horror that crossed his honest face at the thought that he had jumped to an erroneous conclusion.

I let him sputter for a full two minutes whist I dried my face and neck from the rain and changed into a more comfortable jacket, and then I took mercy on the poor chap and assured him that he had drawn the correct conclusion.

I received a disgruntled, miffed glare (which was very rapidly losing its power to intimidate me) before he dissolved into a quiet peal of laughter and re-seated himself at his desk.

I smiled despite myself – it was such a pleasant change to actually _tolerate_ someone's company rather than to grind my teeth and _endure_ it as I had over luncheon today.

"You may consider it reparation for finding my revolver in so colourful and unusual a fashion, Doctor," said I, lighting up my pipe and tossing the match into the grate.

"I was merely glad it was indeed the revolver, and not that swordstick of yours," he replied impishly, going back to his writing.

I choked, inhaling a lungful of dark shag smoke at that very unsettling mental scenario, causing him to grin over his notebook as he scribbled furiously on heaven only knew what.

I wondered for a moment how in the world the man could maintain his almost otherworldly good-natured disposition despite the foul weather and his obvious pain, merely because I had taken the time and the three shillings to send him a bottle of ink. I have heard of people being grateful for small pleasures, but that strikes me as unnaturally extreme and rather unhealthily peculiar.

Most men would have roundly censured me for my carelessness had they come into close contact with a loaded gun in the seat cushions…or been frightened by a breaking charcoal phial…or opened the morning paper to find half of it cut out and in my scrapbooks by now…why in the world had the fellow not lost his temper even once, in a month's time – one month to the day, I suddenly realised?

This was the question I put to him tonight, about an hour ago – why we were up that late I have no idea, save that I was too full and comfortable to move and I suspect he was in too much pain to do so, due to the storm increasing in severity over our dinner.

Hence our little quasi-philosophical discussion. After I had curiously voiced the question he looked thoughtfully into the fire for a moment before sipping again from his glass. Then he glanced up at me.

"One thing I have learnt the hard way, Holmes…" he began slowly, "…is that there are far more important things on this earth than petty personality differences. In the army a man's personality and characteristics disappear; they no longer matter a jot in the grand scheme of life. I have heard it said that you lose yourself when you join such an organization, and I suppose part of it at least is true – you do lose your own wishes and follow orders, regardless of whether they meet with your approval or not."

I had never thought about the fact before – of course, that would be why he was extremely easy-going and not of very definite opinions. He might become so, once he acclimated to civilian life, but certainly one month or two or even six was not enough time to fully emerge from the nondescript mold the war had shoved him into along with hundreds of other men, not all of which were fortunate enough to return to England.

"And besides," he continued in a far less serious tone, grinning at me. "I have to admit there is nothing I despise in this world, other than meaningless violence, more than monotony – and episodes like the one you mention do much to alleviate what otherwise would be an extremely boring life for me."

I did have the grace to blush, for I was not at all sure that was a compliment I should be proud of receiving – but I agreed wholeheartedly with him about hating the dull monotony of life at least; indeed, my entire world was spent in one great effort to escape such a horrible fate.

And, though naturally I did not voice the thought, he has done much to occupy my own mind in those times when I am not engaged upon a case. It is a case of mutual fascination, the allure of the unknown and therefore not-understood, I believe.

Or else, the post-dinner discussion and the alcohol have addled my senses completely by this point in my narrative and I am making absolutely no logical sense whatsoever, which actually is more than possible…I really should go to sleep, for the Doctor has been long abed and the fire is nearly out.

And we are out of port.

Yes, I shall.


	26. February 9, 1881

_February 9, 1881_

_1:20 p.m._

Yesterday was noteworthy only in the unusual fact that I went nowhere and did nothing (which for me is hardly remarkable). This was due in part to the thunderstorm that had not yet let up, in part to the fact that my port-enhanced slumber lasted until well after eleven, in part to the fact that the magazine I occasionally write for has commissioned an article on the finer points of deduction and analysis and I had not even started upon it though it is due in a week, and in part to the fact that _I have no case_ (I wish there were some other method of showing frustration in script other than italics and underlines!).

Any one of these things can cause irrepressible bouts of dark depression for me, but a combination of the above bodes ill for anyone who is foolish enough to come into contact with me during the time I am subject to them. I spent the majority of the day moving between the couch to my desk (mostly the former), saying nothing and in a thoroughly black temper, not accomplishing much at all except to elicit some medical remonstrance about the dangers of not eating properly at some point after lunch and annoy both the Doctor and Mrs. Hudson with my silent scraping upon my violin. I really cannot remember what I did yesterday, if I even did anything at all.

But practicality and a keen mind can overcome depression when money is involved, and so this morning I forced myself to rise at a semi-decent hour, snatch a cup of coffee, and then attempt to make headway on my article before the Doctor came down and began to pester me about what I was doing.

I must admit I am not certain the profits I shall receive will be worth the effort involved – specially since my name will not even appear in the blasted thing. But rent money is rent money is due in a week, and as at present there seems to be a dearth of crime and cases in this metropolis I must continue to supplement my income in any way possible – I most certainly do not wish a repeat of any of my experiences in Montague Street.

As I was extremely busy and needed solitude for concentration, I had not rung for breakfast by the time the Doctor finally bestirred himself shortly after ten. He was moving dreadfully slowly down the stairs – the thunder had abated but it was still pouring down rain outside. Typical of London, but it still was dankly miserable.

The door opened behind me; I heard a vaguely muttered "g'morning" and then the clinking of the coffee-pot. I reached a stopping-point, dotted an errant _i _that I had missed, and then rang for breakfast before reaching for my before-breakfast pipe at long, long last – I had been holding off on the thing to give me an incentive to accomplish _something_ with my time. There were not quite enough plugs left from the previous day to get a full smoke, and so I yawned and reached for the tobacco-tin to make up the remainder of the bowl with fresh shag.

I swore roundly when the lid popped off that infernal tin after I had been prying at it for a good fourteen and a half seconds, scattering tobacco leaves all over the hearthrug with a shivery rustle, covering both me and the carpeting and part of the fire (which flared up suddenly with a _foomph_ that made me jump back from it) in a papery shower.

I heard a stifled laugh from the breakfast-table and sent the Doctor a glare that made him squirm and hastily refill his coffee-cup so as not to look at the free pre-meal floorshow.

"Wonderful," I muttered, beginning to scoop the leaves back up.

"Want me to ring Mrs. Hudson for a broom?" he asked in amusement.

"No, that is highly unsanitary," I said in disgust, brushing my slippers off.

"And picking them off your slippers _isn't_?"

"Good point. I despise this tin – this is the third time in a fortnight this has happened," I growled, trying to shove the leaves back into the infernal thing.

"Do you have something else you could put them in?" he asked sensibly, dropping two sugars into his coffee.

"That I am not using for something else at the moment and that can remain easily within reach?" I sat back on my heels, trying to think. "I believe I have an empty wide-mouthed jar upon my dressing table…the one I was keeping that _phyllobates terribilis_ in until it died while I was gone that one week…I think I cleaned it afterwards, it should do."

"If you try to get up you'll dump those everywhere. Hold on a minute and I'll fetch it," the Doctor offered, setting the cup down and standing to his feet. "…or hold on _three or four_ minutes," he added ruefully as he began to limp toward my bedroom.

He had passed me when he stopped quite suddenly, turning and eyeing me suspiciously over his shoulder. I blinked calmly back at him, waiting for the incredulous outburst. He did not disappoint.

"_Phyllobates terribilis_…you had a Golden Dart Frog on your _dressing-table_?!"

I grinned. "I _told_ you I was experimenting with poisons."

He breathed out slowly through his nose and shook his head, starting toward my bedroom once more. "And here I thought Mrs. Hudson was grossly over-reacting when she refused to step foot in there whilst you were gone that week," he muttered.

I just barely repressed the laugh that rose in my throat, waiting to give vent to my merriment until I saw his reaction to the portrait of Lucretia Borgia that would stare evilly at him as soon as he entered the room.

He did not make it that far, however, due to his tripping over an object that had somehow rolled out from under the chemical table. I cringed in anticipation as he gave a yelp and teetered dangerously off-balance, but he managed to catch himself against the edge of the table before he fell ignominiously to the floor. I let out my breath in a sigh of relief as he bent to pick up the object.

"Holmes…what are you doing with this?" he asked curiously, turning round and holding up that preposterous Persian slipper.

"I am debating that particular question myself, Doctor."

"Why don't you wear them?"

"I only have the one."

He blinked ponderously, slowly processing this information. "Where then is the other?"

"A dog chewed it up," I said enigmatically with a smirk, very much enjoying the stymied look upon his face.

But a sudden idea occurred to me – why not? Why waste a perfectly good jar on tobacco leaves, for the jar might get knocked off the mantel anyhow and shatter all over the hearth. Besides, this might make for an interesting conversation-starter in future days (heaven knew I needed all the help in that area I could gather).

"Toss that here, Watson, would you?"

"The slipper?"

"Yes, just throw it over if you'd be so kind. Thank you." I caught the well-aimed missile in one hand and began cramming the leaves down into it with my other.

"And you were worried about a _broom_ being highly unsanitary?" he gasped, watching my actions with an utterly aghast expression.

"It's a brand-new slipper, Doctor," I said with a careless wave.

"And yet its mate was chewed up by a dog?"

"It is a very long story, Doctor, and one I have not the time to get into before breakfast. There." I hopped to my feet, all the leaves nicely contained in the thing – and the opening was just the right size for my hand to slip into. Excellent!

I set the slipper up on the mantel over the jack-knife – the latter now letter-less, for I had already answered the epistles but left the knife up there for further use in impaling my correspondence – in preparation for my affixing the slipper somehow to the mantel or hearth later today so that it would not fall off and dispense the leaves in another shower everywhere. And I finished this only just in time, for Mrs. Hudson arrived at that juncture with something upon the breakfast tray that smelled (hopefully) like curried chicken.

I hastily shifted to hide the jack-knife (for she had not yet discovered the thing), and the Doctor, much to my amusement, instinctively kicked my gaudy Turkish costume and turban back under the deal table.

Whereupon we both turned absolutely innocently smiling faces to the good woman as she looked up, eyeing us both suspiciously but me especially, her gaze lingering upon me as if to discover merely by glaring at me what I had been doing _now_.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson – that smells wonderful," the Doctor (bless him) ventured hastily, diverting her attention from my awkward position in front of my impromptu cork-board.

The woman's wariness melted visibly, and she beamed at the fellow. "Thank you, Doctor. It looks to be another cold, wet day, so I thought something very hot was in order."

I relaxed when she departed and sent a grin toward my fellow-lodger, who was making his way slowly, very slowly, to the table. He collapsed in his chair and merely shot me a pointed look as if to say _you owe me_, before helping himself to the chicken and topping off his now-tepid coffee.

For several minutes the clank of silverware was the only sound in the room save the drumming of rain upon the roof and the occasional "pass the salt," but then I felt his eyes upon me and looked up, unexpectedly uneasy.

"Do you at present own any other poisonous or venomous animals that other occupants of the house should know about?" he asked severely.

"Erm…no, my research is done on the subject, I promise," I found myself stammering for some reason under that particular look.

"I do hope you washed or will wash that jar thoroughly before using it for any other purpose?"

"Yes, most definitely."

"If you _do_ ever bring something of the sort into the house again, common courtesy would dictate that you inform the people who also share said house."

"Quite clear, Doctor," I mumbled, hiding my flaming face in my coffee-cup.

He nodded curtly and went back to finishing his breakfast, leaving me wondering why the deuce had I been so eager to agree with whatever he suggested and why I had been so embarrassed just now – I am not easily cowed, and to be so by a half-crippled veteran probably two-thirds my intelligence puzzled (and still puzzles) me greatly.

Then a thought occurred to me.

"How did you know what a Golden Dart Frog is, anyway, Doctor? Somehow I doubt obscure South American poisonous amphibians did not play a major part in your medical or army training," I asked suspiciously.

"You might be surprised at the things I know, Holmes," he replied mysteriously, allowing his eyes to twinkle briefly at me before he pushed back his chair, set his napkin down, and limped back over to his desk, leaving me staring slack-jawed after him.

I am not the only person in this house who is purposely baiting the other's curiousity.


	27. February 10, 1881

_I shamelessly stole Holmes's line in Bradley's from the 1954 SH adaptations starring Ron Howard and Marion Crawford – it was simply too apposite to leave out. _:)

* * *

_February 10, 1881_

_8:03 p.m._

Yesterday afternoon and this morning were inordinately busy exercises in foolishness. I spent the majority of the former in trying to scribble some thoughts together for that article and in balancing my cheque-book, until I received a client yesterday evening. The wheels revolve once more.

After I had banished the Doctor from the sitting room, my client (it did not take any powers of deduction to deduce he was a fish-monger, as the smell of mackerel has not yet come out of the couch) laid his problem before me, and the rest of my evening and a good part of the night were spent in tracking down the details of his missing halibut that had been replaced by a much superior speckled trout. A common-place case that was not solely about an unauthorized exchange of merchandise but what I suspected to be a much larger operation in the Billingsgate district.

Though I am not overly eager to return to that horrible area, much less to deal with fish, beggars cannot be choosers and work is work. I am going back tonight to see if I can nab the fellows who are using the fish market as an undercover operation for their message-passing to various criminals in that area. An ingenious plan, and one that would have worked had my client not known how to conduct his fish-hawking better than how to conduct his own personal hygiene.

Thankfully, the rain did stop mid-day today; by the time I returned from running down a lead at the docks around noon o'clock, the sun had finally made its appearance in all its glory to shed a watery gold light all over the sopping city. About time.

I spent two hours working on my article (after waving off a very affronted Mrs. Hudson and a plate of sandwiches, which the stubborn woman still left in dangerous proximity to my elbow), scribbling and erasing, scribbling and erasing, until my nerves were wearing quite thin. By the time the Doctor descended from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes from his nap, I was not in the best of moods.

Apparently, neither was he.

He slouched grumpily into the room, poured himself a drink and downed it (without the aid of a sandwich or anything to dilute it, which was unusual for him), and then ambled over to his desk, reaching up for a book from the very top of the shelves.

I jumped and my pen went skittering across the page as a loud bang sounded from that direction a moment after I had turned back to my work. I stared at the man in some surprise and perceived that he had brought his fist crashing down on the desk-top in his frustration. Judging from the fact that all the books remained in place upon the top shelf and there was nothing in his clenched hands, it was an elementary deduction to see he had been unable to reach the thing due to his bad shoulder and had taken his aggravation out on the polished cherry wood.

"Forgive me," he growled upon seeing my incredulous look. "I am incredibly frustrated. And I freely admit I do not accept helplessness well at all."

"You've no need to justify your actions to me, Doctor," I muttered (for I probably should have sworn and thrown something were I he at that incident), furiously crossing out two sentences that sounded rather contrived. Then two more, and then two more, leaving me with only one. _Blast_. I started to scribble once more, frowning as the words simply would not string themselves into a sentence that was lucid – or at least grammatically correct.

"Ohhh…" I finally moaned in frustration, setting the pen down and rubbing my forehead wearily.

"Headache?"

"Mm, not exactly…more of a brain-ache."

"Over-work, probably."

"I _live_ for work, Doctor," I scoffed.

"But perhaps you shouldn't," he replied patiently, with that dogged stubbornness that characterised a good many of his opinions. "You know you rarely are around here, and when you are, you're invariably doing something – even the busiest of men needs recreation once in a while. It isn't healthy, any more than it is to have solely a life of languor." He added this last self-deprecatingly, though he was not to blame for the fact that he could not do much in the weather we had been having.

Perhaps he was right, a change would do my dried-up desert of a brain some good right now – and if we both were in horrendous moods we might as well keep each other's misery company and save Mrs. Hudson the trouble of dealing with us. Besides, I required something to vent my frustration upon besides that paper and he obviously needed something other than that poor desk – what more interesting (and potentially explosive) situation than to take it out on each other?

"I'm going for a walk," I growled, shoving my chair back from the desk and cramming the sheets of scribbled foolscap into a drawer. "You coming?"

He started in surprise. "You don't mind the company?"

"Not if you don't mind mine – I warn you I am in rather a temper."

He chuckled tolerantly. "Then we make a matched pair. Give me a moment to collect my jacket and hat."

I did so, waiting impatiently in the hall downstairs for him to make his slow descent. Whilst I was tapping my cane impatiently on the linoleum, Mrs. Hudson came out from her quarters to meet me. I instinctively cringed, endeavouring to remember what the devil I had done now, besides the jack-knife in the mantel and the hole I had accidentally punched into the wall with my wardrobe door (which no one knew about yet as I had purposely left it open to hide the fact), but our landlady merely looked at me primly and smiled.

"Will you and the Doctor be dining out, sir?"

"I most certainly hope not," I muttered, completely not anticipating the enforced sociality such an action would create.

The lady raised a censuring eyebrow at me and was about to speak when the Doctor appeared and started down the steps. She evidently decided against whatever she had been going to say to me, for she merely nodded and aimed for a different (completely unsuspecting) target.

"I shall wait until you get back to begin preparations, just in case, gentlemen. Dr. Watson, now you make sure you bundle up warmly, it's still very cold and damp out there," she admonished motheringly, pointing a stern finger at the now red-faced soldier descending the last few steps.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured obediently, wrapping his wool muffler round his neck with a helpless glance at me. I merely smirked, which made him blush even deeper. Who was I to interfere with a woman's maternal instincts?

He breathed a long sigh of relief when the door had closed behind us, causing me to grin, a slight bit of my irritation seeping away from me on the breeze. I always have maintained that there is nothing quite like a laugh at someone else's expense to lift the spirits.

My companion gave a small satisfied sigh as he looked round at the crowded street with its people in varying degrees of well-bundledness, the children darting in and out of the crowd, shrieking and splashing through the sunlight-reflecting puddles left by the storm, and the cabs trotting by and making walking close to the street hazardous to the preservation of a spotless overcoat.

"I am _so_ very glad to get out," he said at last as we turned onto Oxford Street. "I've been trapped in there all week long – I was beginning to feel as if the house were under siege!"

"The only thing I hate worse than snow in February is _rain_ in February," I replied, rather (yes, I admit) grumpily. "Because it invariably is just cold and miserable. At least snow is somewhat less dismal-looking, though by the time it filters through that dank smog it is more grey than white."

"The snow I don't mind, it's the waking up in the cold that does me in," he replied with a recollective shiver.

I nodded absently, and only then registered that we had now officially exhausted the usual small talk about the weather. Wonderful. What now?

I espied Bradley's just down the way and remembered I was nearly out of shag; that slipper had only been half-filled. "Do you mind if we stop in at the tobacconist's?"

"No, not at all – I should like to get some cigars myself," he replied eagerly. He smoked cigars? I was not aware of the fact. No wonder, though, as he had not been able to get out and get them and as I doubt he would happen to look for them in the coal-scuttle (who would, besides myself?).

I bought a pound of shag in approximately twenty-three seconds, and he took at least fifteen _minutes_ to choose his precious cigars. Finally I lost patience with his pokiness and dealt with him accordingly.

"Honestly, Doctor! You choose a cigar like another man chooses a wife!" I hissed in annoyance.

Instead of growing irritated at my impatience, he laughed so hard he nearly choked to death. _Not_ good advertising for people passing a _tobacconist's_, and I believe both the shopkeeper and I breathed a united sigh of relief when finally he decided and I had the purchases sent back to Baker Street so that we did not have to carry them.

"Remind me never to take you along when I go treasure-hunting in bookstores, Doctor," I said dryly as we continued. "Somehow I rather think you would have to be forcibly ejected at closing time."

"And drain my bank-account in the process," he agreed amiably, smiling at me. "I was going to ask you if you'd any book-shops or other places to recommend, by the way – if the weather continues to be genial I simply have to get out, and I've no idea the geography of this part of town yet."

"Mm, there are a few odd curio shops along Oxford and Regent…" I started to think of things relevant or interesting for a man of his personality, for I had already committed these streets and the surrounding ones to memory the day after I moved in. "There's an apothecary's and a chemist's in George Street, and the nearest post-office is in Wigmore. Of course we were just in Bradley's here on Oxford. There is a small café on Gower Street off the Marylebone Road that serves the best apricot tart this side of Pall Mall…"

A slightly random assortment of information due to my haphazard system of filing in the easiest reaches of my mind only those locations which I thought to be the most important, but apparently it satisfied him and he nodded, listening intently, and with his eyes narrowing slightly as if committing the things to memory.

We reached the end of Oxford Street, and I glanced at my walking companion quizzically. "Hyde Park?"

"All right with me," he shrugged easily, glancing cautiously both ways before we began to cross the street – no doubt he had to be slightly more vigilant with an inability to move quickly in emergency. Personally, I have never yet been run over by a 'bus despite my inattention, so why start worrying about being flattened by one now?

We made it to the other side without mishap and continued toward and into the Park, dodging be-parasoled nannies with perambulators and young couples out enjoying each other's companionship a bit more than they were the sunshine.

"We should have asked Mrs. Hudson for some old bread or something."

I blinked out of my thoughts, completely and wholly confused. "I beg your pardon?"

"For the ducks," the Doctor said simply, indicating with his stick the fowls scuttling along the edge of the newly-thawed pond.

"Why on earth would you want to feed those fat little monsters? You know everyone who comes to the park does that, and they are quite disgusting."

He looked at me as if I had suddenly grown a third eye or something equally loathsome. "That's what people _do_, Holmes," he said dryly, in that same tone he informed me the earth went round the sun (I am still not convinced). "You go to the park, and you feed the ducks."

"_I _don't," I said complacently.

"So I noticed," he replied sardonically, his moustache twitching. Was he laughing at me? What had I said?

"What _do_ you do for a pastime, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Supposing I do mind, Doctor. You already asked, now didn't you?"

"Don't be pedantic. What do you do in your free time, or do you even have any?"

I nearly inhaled a passing adventurous insect at his audacity, but I was also extremely amused at his apparent newfound bravery (the sunshine and fresh air, no doubt, or else the heavy brandy before leaving Baker Street) in both his pawkiness and in his asking a very direct and pointed question, no doubt in his effort to uncover my occupation.

I debated briefly telling him something utterly outrageous such as that I collected used theatre tickets or rifle cartridges or dog biscuits and built model ships out of them, or something equally _recherché_, but I decided it was not a sporting time, as he obviously was fishing for real information in an admirably direct manner.

I was not going to bite right off, however. Caginess was my best weapon against a worthy opponent, and I was every inch the man to wield it.

"I am not in the possession of much free time, Doctor."

"Yes, but surely you have some?"

"Mm, I suppose. I normally just sit about the house and do experiments. Ones that are slightly less dangerous than those involving dart frogs and loaded weapons," I added slyly, with a sidelong glance at him.

"I should certainly hope so!"

"Or I go somewhere and have a workout of some kind…stay in shape in the boxing and fencing and all that sort of thing, you know. I really have no obvious pastimes besides my violin, Doctor; I have never been the type to enjoy fishing or boating or anything of the sort."

"In other words, you only enjoy sports that occupy your mind as much as your body."

"Quite so," I replied guardedly, though secretly I very much approved of his reasoning and perception.

He nodded thoughtfully, though in a bit of disappointment. No doubt he was fishing for far larger a catch than I had given him. I repressed the smirk that crossed my face and fired a question of my own as we rounded the pond and continued on the path through the slightly soggy park.

"And you, Doctor? What do you enjoy, besides sleeping late, reading cheap novels, pining after my female clients, and writing an exorbitant amount of letters to people?"

He blushed slightly, ignoring the first three jabs and concentrating on the last. "I do a deal of writing, not just letters," he admitted.

"Do you now."

"Well there's nothing wrong with that, is there?" he bristled defensively. Mm, touchy subject. Interesting.

"Certainly not, Doctor. Technical writing or otherwise?"

He kicked a stone out of the way before answering. "Otherwise," he muttered.

Good, no competition in the monograph department then at least. I would not be in the least surprised to see his name plastered to the cover of one of those penny dreadfuls at some future date in time.

"Anything else?"

"In my college days, I used to play billiards," he shrugged. "No possible way I can take that up again until I get more settled into London, a bit more money and perhaps acquire a medical practice."

"You intend to be a G.P., then? Not go back into the army?"

"I doubt they'd take me back after this injury," he said quietly, his left hand clenching at his side. "And I want to be a physician, that's all I've ever wanted to do...I can't even imagine a life doing anything else. I'd rather have a practice than just work in a hospital the rest of my life."

I nodded approvingly. A practice, working with families and people constantly, would be good for him, and good for London too.

"I'm not even sure I could be a good family practitioner, though," he said ponderingly, almost more to himself than to me. "After an army life that would be rather strange at first – different injuries, different ages of people…"

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," I ventured into the realm of common conversation with some temerity. "Drawing conclusions from the way you ferociously attacked that cold germ of mine, I believe you would do just fine. Poor Lestrade, though, your chasing him off like that. Your bedside manner is exceptional, Doctor, but you could do with some work on your waiting-room skills."

He laughed heartily and his countenance lifted at once, much to my relief. It was far too pleasant a day to spend in brooding (not that there was anything particularly abnormal about brooding, but there would be time enough for that when the rain started again).

We neatly side-stepped a group of screaming lads in little sailor hats who were chasing a goose toward the pond, veered round a disgusting couple getting better acquainted on a bench, and continued on down the paths and walkways for an undeterminable time, in a silence much more comfortable than the last few had been between us.

Feeling more at ease knowing that apparently the Doctor did not expect me to make aimless converse, my mind wandered to my case and what I was to do in the fish market tonight, and then back to the article I had left unfinished at the flat.

So deep was I in my thoughts that I was completely taken by surprise when some loose gravel gave way under my companion and he slipped, skidding into me briefly before righting himself with an embarrassed breathless apology.

"Quite all right," I said automatically, continuing to debate what approach to take to the blasted article…and what to call it? I had four more days to have the stupid thing in the post, and it would be rather foolish to wait until the very last minute to do the thing…though that probably is what I shall end up doing, as I am no closer tonight to having it done than I was then.

So engrossed was I that I only gradually realised the sound of rather heavy breathing coming from next to me. I looked over to see that the Doctor's face had gone rather white, and he was limping dreadfully, struggling to draw an even breath. Obviously I had been walking too quickly and he thought it necessary for some reason to keep up with me instead of taking the sensible approach as most men would have done and sitting on a bench until he at least was in no danger of fainting from the exertion so soon after an enforced period of inactivity.

I stopped on the instant (for it would not do to make a public scene). "Doctor, are you quite all right?"

"Yes, I…I just need to…catch my breath, that's all," he gasped, stopping and leaning heavily on his stick.

"Well for heaven's sake, you could have said something," I growled, indicating a nearby empty bench with my cane and pointing him in that direction.

"No…no, I'm fine," he insisted weakly, tugging on his muffler with the hand not clutching the walking stick, "just…needed to slow down a bit."

"Are you certain?" I really did not want to deal with his collapsing in the middle of a crowded park – not only would the people stare but he might hurt himself falling and that would ruin the _entire_ rest of the afternoon.

"Quite, thank you," he breathed, mopping his brow with his handkerchief and loosening his stifling muffler.

After another minute the blood started to return to his face, and only when his breathing had returned to normal did I continue walking without looking behind me to check upon him; no doubt his pride had been bruised enough by the fact that I had slowed down for him, I had no wish to do further damage to it.

I did slow the pace, but even so he was limping so badly by the time we reached the crowded street again that his stick was acting more like a crutch than a gentleman's accessory – and when a trio of boisterous children ran squarely into us before darting back into the crowd, he visibly bit back an exclamation of pain and I felt myself wince in some sort of weird twinge inside…sympathy, I can only suppose it was, though I of course am not an expert on such matters.

I had no desire to offend the man, but nor did I want him tripping and falling under a four-wheeler or even a peddler's cart. Which he was likely to if he did not accept some aid – but the stubborn idiot would probably rather die than lower himself to do so base a thing.

My opportunity came after a few minutes when a young fellow in a dapper suit and bowler, who was moving far too fast on such wet pavement, came speeding down the walk, weaving in and out of the foot-traffic. He knocked up against the Doctor in the crowd, my companion in turn stumbled into me, and I in consequence hastily caught his elbow to prevent one or both of us from crashing ingloriously to the pavement.

"Sorry," the Doctor apologised, righting himself with a grunt and making to pull out of my grip.

I did not let go, however.

The obstinate chap eyed me with a rather bitter suspiciousness, trying to pull free. After a moment I allowed him to but then offered him my own elbow, giving him an opportunity to surrender with some grace. As I anticipated, he refused. Fascinating.

"No, thank you," he snapped, drawing himself up and continuing doggedly on down the walk. Hmph.

_Honestly_. And Mycroft insisted _my_ stubbornness was unrivalled in the history of the Empire. No doubt he would say Watson and I are perfectly matched in that respect.

"My dear Doctor," I finally said in exasperation, catching up to him in two long strides. "I have absolutely no desire to explain to our over-reactive landlady why you met your death by falling under a cab only two streets from home when it was in my power to prevent such an eventuality. For heaven's sake swallow that confounded pride and prevent me from walking down the street looking like a crippled chicken with my elbow sticking out like this!"

He paused with raised eyebrows and glanced sideways at me, for I had indeed continued to (just as stubbornly as he in turn was refusing to notice I was doing so) hold my elbow out; and our fellow pedestrians were beginning to send me very odd and more than slightly dubious looks. On his face, I could almost see the fierce humiliation, pride, and amusement each vying for control; but thank heaven the latter and his ridiculously good nature won over and he shot me a rueful grin at last, gracefully surrendering to the inevitable.

"Somehow I think you probably gather those odd looks _regardless_ of the position of your arm," he observed puckishly, gingerly accepting my offer of aid as we began to weave through the increasingly thick street traffic.

I was too elated over my victory over his stubborn will (a victory indeed, and a rare one over a man of that obstinacy) to be offended, but I did snort to keep up the pretense of being so. For a minute we walked in a somewhat awkward and rather jerky silent motion, and then he stumbled and his grip tightened considerably as he finally allowed himself to put some of his weight upon me for the rest of the trip home.

"You know," I observed when I finally felt him untense slightly, "you've no reason to be ashamed of being wounded in the service of your country, Doctor, nor of taking the necessary time to recover from such service."

Where in the name of all that is logical had _that_ come from? I still have no idea – the fresh air must have addled my brain considerably. I do not at all like the fact.

His brows knitted briefly, but then they relaxed and he smiled before turning to tip his hat to a pert, red-headed young lady in a rather fetching costume approaching us. He received a flashing coquettish smile in return before she swept on in the crowd in a rustle of skirts.

Why did _I_ never get that reaction?

I believe we both jumped when a nearby church clock tolled five a moment later; I had not realised we had been out for so long – it was no wonder he was leaning rather heavily on me after such a lengthy excursion. The sun was beginning to set, casting red and orange rays across the greyness of London, and the temperature was dropping; I dearly hoped for all our sakes a cold front was not moving in.

"Brrrr," was my companion's stunningly intelligent deduction as we hastened onward to Baker Street.

"A very astute observation, Doctor," I teased, gently tugging him out of the way of a trio of burly street-workers carrying various tools, heading home from their day's toil.

"We can't all have as sharp an eye and brain as you do – what would the world be like in that case?" he shot back at me with a grin.

"Deucedly boring, for one thing."

Actually, it would be _unbearably_ boring, I believe.


	28. February 11, 1881

_February 11, 1881_

_4:57 p.m._

Hee. The good Doctor apparently is growing a bit impatient with my verbal fencing, for his questions about me and all things Sherlock Holmes-ish are growing slightly less oblique and more direct in each succession; and he has today accomplished what I would not have thought possible from anyone save my brother – he actually got the better of me this afternoon in our interesting little sparring match. But to start from the beginning:

He actually asked me _outright_ over luncheon today (I spent the entire morning in the laboratory and the dissecting-room at Bart's) if I were going in for medicine or chemistry, and was thoroughly disgruntled when I did not elaborate on my "No. Pass the salt?". How I simply _adore_ being a tease, and especially ragging on an opponent intelligent _and_ skilled enough to be a worthy combatant.

I further piqued his curiousity (and apparently his wit, judging from the outcome of the thing) after luncheon when we were both lounging about the sitting room, he flipping idly through one of my books on irritant and poisonous plants and I trying and failing miserably to write that blasted article for that infernal magazine.

"_Calladium…possible skin and eye irritant_. Well _naturally_, you shouldn't rub your eyes without washing your hands, ever, specially after touching any foreign substance that could be an irritant," he read aloud ironically. "…You know, we should get a houseplant, Holmes."

He said this in the same tone one would discuss acquiring a pet, and I raised my eyes briefly from my paper to look at him.

"One of those listed in that book?"

"No, no, something slightly less strange. Well, I mean, it is going to be spring soon…hopefully," he muttered ruefully, glancing at the icy pavements outside (we had had a cold snap, though without snow). "Mrs. Hudson's got a lovely aspidistra in the hall downstairs, and it brightens up the whole area."

"You're more than welcome to get a plant, Doctor," I said dryly. "Might I suggest a Venus Flytrap would be slightly more entertaining of a lazy afternoon than a decorative green?"

He laughed and shut the book. "Don't tell me you had a Fly-trap in the past? Why would that not surprise me…"

I grinned despite the fact that I could not remember the correct way to punctuate this odd sentence structure. "No, no, Doctor. The only plant I've ever owned was some sort of fern a client gave me once, in my old boarding-house." I did not think it necessary to tell him I had had a poinsettia until the Dudley woman's hell-cat had eaten part of it (it would have eaten the whole thing and then probably started on my dress suit, had it not expired in my closet before it had finished the poisonous flora).

"Oh?"

"Yes," I said absently, doodling on the top of my paper, "and it unfortunately died within the week."

He looked surprised. "They're usually pretty hardy little plants – where did you keep it?"

"On a shelf; I had nowhere else to put the blasted thing."

"Yes, but where was the shelf?"

"On the wall, Doctor – where else would a shelf hang?" I asked incredulously, not comprehending what he was driving at.

He chuckled and leant back in his chair, reaching for one of his new cigars. "No, I mean in relation to the window," said he, cupping his hand round the match he held to the cigar-end.

"Oh…the opposite wall, I think, by the closet. It was the only empty space I had in that tiny room," I shrugged, scratching out a word. "How do you spell acquired?"

"A-c-q-u-i-r-e-d."

"Ah. I never can remember the _c_. Anyway, Doctor, yes – the shelf was the top one on the opposite wall. What does that have to do with the fern's life span?"

He paused with the cigar halfway to his mouth, glancing quizzically at me. "The top shelf, on the opposite wall??" he asked in disbelief. "Didn't you put it near the window for a little bit each day at least?"

"There was no shelf _open_ near the window, so _no_," I said in annoyance, scribbling out another word.

"Holmes…do you mean to say you didn't give the poor fern any sunlight at all?"

"Sunlight?" I asked blankly, dropping my pen. What the blazes did sunlight have to do with its life span? They were called _house_ plants because they were supposed to survive _indoors_ – would that not be the logical conclusion? Why call it a _house_plant if it required the same things an outdoor plant did for survival?

"No wonder the thing died…did you water it at all?"

"Erm…I think? Maybe? What does it matter?"

"I think I'll pass on getting a plant – if I ever had to go away for a while you would kill the poor thing," he said with a supercilious smirk that I found very annoying.

"Just as you like, Doctor, I have far more important things to ponder than how to keep a potted fern alive," I growled, going back to my work.

I heard a tolerant chuckle (how that noise is starting to grate on my nerves! It is no fun at all to annoy people if one does not get a reaction from them!) and then a flipping of pages as he began to peruse my book again.

"_Dieffenbachia_," he read. "So harmless-looking, but can be severely caustic and irritant."

"Mmhm."

"Like some people," I heard him say slyly. _Opening gambit?_

I smirked over my paper but did not rise to the bait, no doubt annoying him severely for he sniffed and went on after another _fwip_ of a turning page. C_heck._

"_Opium poppy_," he continued (was the man going to keep reading different plant names aloud? I would never get this article done, because the conversation was considerably more interesting than my article was going to be!). "Isn't it strange how one plant can be used for good and ill? Opium and other drugs are used for medicinal purposes in small doses, but in larger ones they can be addictive and even fatal."

"Yes, indeed. There was a bad rash of opium-den murders last autumn in the East End," I said absently, trying to find a striking way to end my article. "Nasty businesses, at least fifteen men in three nights, all shoved out trap-doors leading into the river and later found by the water police; no water in the lungs so the opium itself was responsible. Turned out that the owner of the string of dens, one Peter Laster, was running an extermination operation; taking orders for certain undesirable persons to be disposed of by an overdose, for a fee of course. Sentenced to life imprisonment, I believe."

"You seem to be well up on the criminal news of the century. That isn't the first time I've heard you talk about some horror perpetrated in London or elsewhere…" he said cautiously.

Ha, I had caught his attention, and not from my knowledge of the drug.

"Yes, I do keep up with it," I said with a grin aimed at my paper, refusing to elaborate further on the matter. _Check_.

He made no answer, and when I sneaked a look at him his face was a mixture of frustration and curious thoughtfulness. I smirked and turned back to my article, leaving no sound in the room for a few seconds besides the scratching of my pen and the mental gears whirring inside the Doctor's head.

"Hmm… _Opuntia polyacantha,_" he continued reading. "Native to America, mostly."

"Prickly pear cactus," I supplied without looking up._ Check._

"Exactly," he said coolly. "The spines prevent the casual observer from touching it or even coming near it, but the few brave enough to effect safe passage past the spines are rewarded by the water it contains, and are able to use the plant for its other medicinal uses and so on. Quite fascinating."

"Like some people?" I interjected with a raised eyebrow.

"Like some people," he agreed enigmatically, but with an electric probing under-current that was obviously a counter-effort to my purposely piquing his curiousity._ Stalemate._

We exchanged shots for a few more minutes, and then he yawned and left the book on his chair, heading up to his room with a few blankets for a nap.

It was probably a quarter hour later that I was replacing my book on the shelf and I happened to absently scan the names of the plants in the volume's index…

…and suddenly felt a wave of chagrin and something akin to admiration flood over me.

That particular book did _not_ list the _opuntia polyacantha_ as one of its discussed plants_._

_Checkmate,_ I thought ruefully_. Well done, Doctor._


	29. February 11 & 12, 1881

_February 11, 1881_

_11:37 p.m._

Nights like these I wonder why in the world I took up this particular profession instead of some less risky occupation such as my brother's…or a chemist's…or even a doctor's…or a mortician's…or a fruit-peddler's…any but that of a (the only) private consulting detective.

I call myself a _consulting_ detective, but of late I seem to be doing rather more arduous (and dangerous) legwork than I am consulting! I dearly hope for a few more armchair cases, else my luck may one of these nights run out and I will find myself immersed in the Thames inside a lead box. Not the most pleasant way to spend an evening.

At least the ghastly fish-market business is cleared up. Who would have dreamt that so petty a happenstance as a missing halibut would culminate in my almost going over the side of a bridge, strangled to death, were it not for a remarkably astute constable who showed more intelligence than most of his ilk (I have recommended the dear fellow to Lestrade for a promotion, believe you me – the chap deserves better than the Billingsgate fish-market beat, every night dodging drunkards and courtesans and heaven only knows what else) and stopped the brawl single-handedly, showing remarkable prowess with his truncheon and his wit. An oddity in the P.C. division, to be sure, and I am quite impressed.

Once I was able to breathe again (I must endeavour to not let the Doctor see me tomorrow without my collar, as the bruises will no doubt be cause for his curiousity – and heaven knows he does not need to fuel that any more than he has already), I thanked the young fellow and, after ascertaining my savior's name – _Hopkins_, and I shall not soon forget it – together we got the men responsible hauled off to the Yard in varying stages of grogginess.

Lestrade was not overly happy (I cannot repeat in polite company his reaction) about my dumping yet another criminal gang into his lap this month, but so the world turns.

I was quite relieved the Doctor was abed by the time I returned an hour ago, for that enabled me access to liniment for my abused throat without his asking embarrassing questions. I really must stop accepting cases that take me to that area of town so late at night – I will not deny that I was dreadfully afraid it was all over there for a moment, I against three others on a darkened bridge. I am still shaking slightly…perhaps a drink before bed…

Or several…

* * *

_February 12, 1881_

_3:10 a.m._

Yes, a.m. I must scribble this down now so that I do not forget it or wonder in the morning (it is morning, isn't it?) if it really transpired thus or not; for it troubles me greatly and I wish to ensure I can ponder the problem tomorrow (later today, rather) over a pipe or two when I am slightly less disjointed.

One of the curses of a wickedly vivid imagination such as mine is that it continues to conjure up images and sensations even while asleep, not all the images being agreeable. In other words, I am relatively prone to nightmares, of a particularly vivid sort.

No doubt my occupation and irregular eating habits have something to do with the matter, but Mycroft will attest that even as a child I was always prey to fairly bad dreams; the condition has not grown better but worse as the danger in my profession occasionally rears its Gorgon head in a petrifying manner.

I have not had a terrible vision such as this one since I moved. They were a moderately frequent occurrence in Montague, due in part to the rat-infested hell-hole I lived in and in part to the living nightmare to whom I paid my rent – after the move to Baker Street I have not had a particularly disturbing one. Until tonight, anyway.

I most definitely am _not_ going to recount in these pages the details of said dream (not only is it unnecessary but also painful), but suffice it to say the events of my evening in Billingsgate being relived only in a hundredfold worse and more excruciating way left me short of breath and nearly strangled in my bedclothes, shaking all over in a cold sweat and still seeing scattered flashing fragments of the horror in my head and against my eyelids when once I jerked awake with a small cry.

For a moment I stared up at the ceiling of my room, gasping and trying desperately to regain my breath and composure, and taking a modest comfort in the small soft glow that emanated under my door from the sitting-room. A full five seconds had passed before I realised that there was not _supposed_ to be a light there, not at this hour as I realised after consulting my watch.

To my abject horror, a few seconds later there was a soft tapping on the door. In something of a panic, I hastily rolled onto my side and closed my eyes again. Had I made a noise whilst dreaming that horror? _Oh, no…_

I held my breath, firmly employing all my colossal willpower in slowing my breathing to a steady, rhythmic respiration, and only just in time; I heard the door slowly squeak open and a soft whisper sounded in the room.

"Holmes? Are you asleep?"

Startled as I was to hear him, I allowed myself to make no move but merely breathed in and out slowly and kept my eyes lightly closed, giving a very convincing performance of being deep in the sleep of the just. The _last_ thing I desired was to be forced to talk about what I had just seen, or hear a non-helpful medical explanation for the terror.

Shuffling – limping – footsteps approached me almost noiselessly on the nap of the carpet. A slight pause, and then I felt the blankets that were still twisted uncomfortably round me being gently, so gently I barely felt it, worked out from under my arms and pulled up over me.

I kept my ears pricked up, wishing I could open my eyes but remaining motionless in the same position. There was a very quiet sloshing noise – a glass of water being poured across the room? – and then a faint _clink_ close to my head – the glass being set down on the table. Then I caught a barely audible whispered "poor fellow" before the softly padding footsteps retreated and I heard the door creak shut as slowly and squeakily as it had been opened, leaving the room in darkness and silence once more, albeit a slightly less terrifying one than previously.

I waited a moment for good measure and then cracked one eye; then, seeing I was alone, I sat up on the instant, deeply mystified and bewildered by what had just happened.

First off, what the blazes was he doing up this late – early – whatever it was? After three in a frigid morning?

Second, what in the world was he doing with me just now? Some weird medical instinct, a need to care for a patient? That man desperately needs a practice, in all seriousness – he seems to be the type that simply _has_ to help someone in order to be happy. I am not at all sure I enjoy being a laboratory rat for him to practice the art upon.

Third…that water actually was very soothing on my throat, but had I called out and that is why it hurts so still? Or is it just a latent reaction from the dream, some weird lingering chill from those huge fingers choking off my breathing?

Fourth, how had his murmured 'poor fellow' not come off sounding pitying or condescending as I would expect from another man? More…what was the word…

_Sympathetic_?

Ah, there I had the answer to numbers one and four at least. The answer to number three is of little or no consequence. But number two…now that is an enigma. Why would he come all the way in here to check upon me – I certainly would have made a long detour around myself if I were he.

Or would I?

I very much do not like second-guessing myself. This is ridiculous.

The fact that it is barely a quarter-past three in the morning does not help matters, nor the fact that I have to stay here in bed with this candle hidden from sight of the door, as judging from the pacing in there he is still up and doing heaven only knows what.

I want my pipe! But if I do not get some sleep at least, I shall be of little use to my client (bless his idiotic little heart, I am going to murder him in return for nearly meeting the Maker of all those blasted species of fish tonight) or anyone else in the morning, so perhaps I had better put this down and attempt to meet Morpheus in slightly less disturbing conditions. _Truce_?

More on this tomorrow.


	30. February 12, 1881

_There's a nod to you, pebbles66, in this, but more to come on that matter we discussed recently. _:)

* * *

_February 12, 1881_

_2:20 p.m._

Somehow I believe in most cases, a good lawyer could make the argument that fratricide is very definitely a justifiable homicide. All worldly logic would bear that supposition out firmly and clearly.

In other words: were it not that the effort involved would be staggering, that it would be impossible to commit the deed with the number of safeguards the government has for him, that it would be entirely brainless for me to take out the man whose brain controls the fate of Europe, that I should be destroying any hope of future aid (monetary or otherwise) from him, that it is after all a criminal offense, and that despite the fact I could cheerfully shoot him on sight at the moment I still somewhere have some sort of eerie illogical affection for him – were it not for these reasons, I should be turning myself in to Lestrade for the aforementioned crime and coaching my own barrister according to my aforementioned logic.

To put it in words even a Scotland Yard official could understand, there are times when I absolutely _despise_ my elder brother. A plague upon his house (myself excepted, naturally)!

As if my semi-sleepless night were not bad enough (though I did not have any more nightmares after the incident of last entry), my breakfast was interrupted by the arrival of a telegram couched in the typical Mycroft style and wordiness.

MUST SEE YOU IMMEDIATELY SHERLOCK STOP THIS IS NOT OPTIONAL FINAL STOP MYCROFT.

_Wonderful_. While I was not forced to obey my brother in any way legally or otherwise, the price of _dis_obeying him was far too outside my means for comfort. Mycroft holds a grudge like no other man alive (except perhaps myself); and while he did not often expend the necessary energy for vengeance, when he _did,_ the person upon which the hammer fell regretted it (this I know from past experience) thoroughly.

The Doctor was still asleep on the couch (I was quite proud of the fact that I had not woken him up so far, for it had taken an inordinate exertion on my part that I shall not make the effort to put forth again if he does not clearly appreciate it), and so thankfully I did not have to answer questions about the telegram. I threw it in the fire, ascertained that I had left enough coffee for him when he woke up (whenever that would be), and then somehow made it out the door without having to actually _talk_ to anyone this morning – undoubtedly a record, and an extremely pleasant change.

I had only an hour before Mycroft would leave his rooms for Whitehall, and he well knew it when he sent the telegram – he did love to send people scurrying to do his bidding on the instant he chose, but I was not one of his precious ambassadors or dignitaries.

I told the man so in on uncertain terms sixteen minutes and forty seconds later when I picked the lock on his door and entered his apartment. He was not amused (what else was new?), either by my words or by my method of entry.

"Honestly, Sherlock!"

"Look, it is not my fault Her Majesty's government does not take better pains in securing you," I pointed out. "Were I an assassin – and the idea is rather tempting at the moment – I could have killed you before you could put down your tea-cup."

"Would you care to wager on that?" brother dearest asked calmly, motioning me to a chair with a fat hand.

"On second thought, no. Now what the devil do you want, Mycroft?"

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes, but not as much as you obviously have," I retorted mischievously, indicating the (numerous) empty dishes upon the table.

"Sherlock, not all of us have an over-active personality and a digestion to match, and the world is the safer for it," he replied boredly, finishing off his sixth sausage.

"Brother, somehow I do not think you summoned me here to discuss my eating habits or my health. Though you may find this hard to believe, I do have a busy life and I have not factored you into my day's itinerary. Now what the devil do you want?"

"Honestly, Sherlock…must you always be firing on all cylinders?" Mycroft sighed, leaning back in his chair with infuriating lethargy.

"Mycroft…" I said through gritted teeth.

"The fact is, Sherlock, that I want you to have these," said he, retrieving two pasteboard cards from his pocket and tossing them across the table toward me. I eyed them with deep-rooted suspicion, for my brother never gave me a thing – normally I had to scrape and grovel and threaten and all but entirely debase myself to get a farthing from him.

"Theatre tickets?"

"You know _Hamlet _is playing at the Globe this week, of course."

"I do not keep abreast of popular entertainment unless a crime has been committed in the theatre itself."

"Yes, whatever. At any rate, I've been forced to accompany His…well, a visiting dignitary, to the performance tomorrow evening," my brother stated with an air of well-bred boredom. "And as you obviously need to break into some sort of social life outside of the police court, I am offering you a seat at the performance as well – in an entirely different box, naturally; I want you nowhere near my guest or he will _never_ trust the English."

I ignored the slur on my character (after years and years of receiving them I had become all but immune to such barbs) and eyed the tickets with growing suspicion. "There are two of them."

"Your skills of observation remain unrivaled by none but my own, Sherlock."

"Not funny, Mycroft! What the deuce are you about?"

"Well you can hardly attend the theatre alone? Surely you have _someone_ who would be willing to put up with you for a few hours' time to see a famous play?"

I glared at the infernal scoundrel with all my formidable might. Unfortunately, said might had been vanquished by his own long before I reached adolescence and the ire no longer even gave him cause to pause in his conversation.

"Mycroft. I have no desire whatsoever to attend the theatre with anyone."

"I had hoped not to turn my offer into a demand, brother, but you leave me no choice," he sighed. What in the world?

"A demand? What the devil are you going on about?" I exclaimed in horror, feeling a dismayed, crawling sensation creeping down my back at his words.

"Sherlock, you simply have got to get rid of that hermit complex you cherish so dearly," my brother stated with a roll of the eyes.

"I! And this from the man who belongs to the most unsociable club in London?!"

"At least I _belong_ to a club, Sherlock – you refuse to even join! And my distancing myself from my fellow man is for the sake of clearing my mind of the affairs of state and the Continent, _not_ because I am a cynical misanthrope."

"I beg to differ."

"Your opinions on the matter are moot and of little interest or import, Sherlock. But to get back to business: as you have no intention of getting out on your own, I must therefore insist that you do so, for your own sanity's sake. It is not healthy for you to remain cloistered up in your work every waking hour of the day, and in many hours in which you should _not_ be waking."

"You are starting to sound like Watson," I snapped irritably, for the man was driving me absolutely insane with his blathering. Actually having the gall to tell me I should not live for my work? The nerve of the man!

"Then good for him, if he has been telling you the same," Mycroft retorted with some interest sparking in his watery eyes.

Oh, no, I knew that look…

"Surely he would go with you to the performance."

"I am not taking him anywhere _near_ you, Mycroft," I replied frantically, closer to a dead panic than I ever had been. Ten minutes in my infernal brother's company, and I would lose a lodger due to his being frightened that no one in my family even came close to resembling normal…

My brother merely laughed. "As usual, I've no intention of letting on to anyone that I know you, Sherlock – that particular habit has saved me from social embarrassment countless times, you know. But you _are_ going to go to that performance, you understand."

I glared at him, thoroughly incensed now.

"I should be interested to see the fellow, anyhow," brother mine mused thoughtfully. "Anyone who can live with you for…how long has it been? A month?"

"And five days," I snapped.

"Yes, yes. Anyone who could live with you for that long without killing you has to be a better man than I. I am curious, Sherlock, merely curious."

"I am _not_ going to that bloody play!"

"Oh, yes you are," Mycroft replied calmly. "Unless you want your part in that Brookstone mansion burglary made known to the police?"

I felt my face pale despite my immense control. "You said you destroyed the reports!"

"Oh, dear me no, Sherlock. I must keep _something_ round to blackmail you with."

"Mycroft! You would not dare –"

"Are you taking those tickets or not?"

I snatched the tickets with a snarl and shoved them into my pocket. "You are an insufferable scoundrel!"

"Thank you, Sherlock. Tea before you depart?"

I scowled and told the man several possibilities that he could do with said tea, but he merely smiled indulgently and poured himself another cup. "Then I shall see you, albeit from a safe distance, tomorrow evening. And the Doctor, I suppose – or would you like me to find you a lady companion to take?"

"Blackmail is one thing, Mycroft – _torture_ is quite another!"

"Dear, dear, Sherlock…" he sighed, sipping from his cup with the self-satisfied air that made me want to strangle his fat neck...if my hands would even reach that far without straining a ligament.

"Is that _all_, brother mine?" I managed to get out between clenched teeth.

"Quite so. Do make sure you close the door on your way out – you _are_ on your way out, I hope? – for it is deucedly chilly."

I made a rude remark and accompanying gesture that only netted me a raised eyebrow, and then stood to make for the door. I was stopped halfway there by my brother's amused voice.

"Are you gaining weight, Sherlock?"

I turned to fix him with such a murderously disturbed look that made even him squirm ever so slightly and hastily look back down into his cup.

"Well, you could do to gain some. My thanks – and congratulations – to your new landlady."

"Good-_bye_, Mycroft!"

I slammed the door loudly enough that the deaf, retired politician across the way shot me an irritated look as he gathered his morning paper. Not that I cared one iota about _anything_ going on around me at that moment in time, even a _little_.

The Doctor had gone out by the time I returned to the flat; Mrs. Hudson informed that he had gone to visit some charity hospitals around the city to see which one needed help the most. He has not yet returned (I hope he took a cab, as the temperature is dropping rapidly and I believe we are in for another heavy snowfall) and so I am still pondering the problem of how to ask him to go with me to that infernal production.

How in blazes am I going to tell my fellow-lodger that he _has_ to accompany me to the theatre? He may not even _like_ Shakespeare, and it is not as if he will want to go just for sake of my considerably-less-than-thrilling company!

What am I going to do? How can I bribe him to come along? What can I use for leverage to gain his tolerance for once night? Can I even stand a social night out with another human being without either going mad or driving my companion to the same destination? What in _blazes_ was Mycroft _thinking_?

Am I _really_ gaining weight?


	31. February 13, 1881

_February 13, 1881_

_3:31 p.m. _

I _am_ gaining weight! My formal waistcoat never used to fit that tightly as it did when I tried it on a few minutes ago! This will never do – I shall have to start walking instead of taking a cab more often (though I would have to do that anyway if another case does not come my way soon), and now that I think about it my exercise in the last month has been rather limited to scuffles in the line of my work rather than a conscious effort to stay in condition. I do not want to have the rest of my clothes fit as tightly as that waistcoat did – in ten months I shall be nearly half as large as Mycroft!

On the other end of extreme, the poor Doctor all but panicked upon digging his own formal suit out of the mothballs and trying it on – it literally hung on the man, a good two sizes too large everywhere but the shoulders. He looked quite comical standing there, but I refrained from laughing at his chagrined expression when I remembered the more sobering reason for his being so thin (while I may very well be as insensitive as Mycroft claims, I am not completely heartless). If the suit fit him before the war, the man actually had a very much larger build then, and somehow I doubt it was anything but muscle, if his physical strength was in any way to match his mental as the case is with most people of my acquaintance (my disgustingly corpulent brother being the main and largest exception to that rule).

Mrs. Hudson did not laugh either but fussed at the poor fellow (as if he were not embarrassed enough) for the entire duration of the time that she was pinning up the jacket, causing him to keep shooting me pleadingly helpless glances as she went on and on about how she needed to "fatten him up a bit," I believe was the quaint expression she used. I must agree with her, however, both in that he _should_ gain some weight and in the fact that she is definitely the woman to achieve that end.

"Ms. Hudson, I assure you that I am perfectly –" he attempted feebly for the fourth time to placate the lady while dodging a large, murderous, and evil-looking straight pin.

"You are going to eat every bit of my luncheon, young man, or I shall not let Mr. Holmes take you anywhere tonight! Is that clear?" the lady asked, hands on her hips and looking up at the Doctor.

His face flushed a bright scarlet and he nodded with a meek "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now you get that coat off, and I'll take it in and move the buttons for you after I bring luncheon up," our landlady declared, regally sailing out of the room with the rest of his costume which he had already tried on earlier.

When she had gone and the door safely shut to give us a small respite, he turned to me plaintively. I merely grinned and cocked an eyebrow over my paper at him.

"_Young man_?" he asked incredulously. "I doubt if she's even eleven or twelve years older than we are!"

I laughed and turned a page. "She's a very interesting specimen of womankind, eh?"

"Yes – oww – I hate this stiff suit," he gasped abruptly, his face contorting in pain as he struggled awkwardly to remove the tight-fitting article without hurting his shoulder.

I made to lay the paper down and assist, but he waved me back hastily, scowling and yanking the jacket off at last. He tossed it upon the couch and then slowly re-donned his frock-coat, after which he slumped into the chair across from me and put his chin in his hand.

"You know I'm not even sure I remember _how_ to tie a bow-tie," he remarked wryly.

"Mmhm," I agreed absently. "I admit I have not had occasion to wear one since the last funeral I attended…which is why I prefer concerts at St. Albert's Hall to going to a night at the theatre, one can dress comfortably in the former at least."

From my peripheral vision I saw him nod most emphatically, and he was about to speak when our good landlady fairly flew into the room with our luncheon, putting the dishes upon the table with an amazing rapidity – and without spilling anything, an even more amazing feat.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, you make sure he eats all that before he gets up from the table," the woman admonished me sternly, pointing a bony finger at my face.

I felt my eyes widen despite myself and a very uncomfortable urge to squirm wormed its way down my spine. "Erm…yes, Mrs. Hudson, I am certain we shall be fine," I managed to say, ducking my head and hastily taking a sip of water.

"See that you are, gentlemen," she retorted sternly, sweeping the Doctor's be-pinned costume up into her capable hands and leaving with a thud of a door shutting.

The Doctor's face was so dark a red I was not sure if it were scientifically possible to grow any deeper crimson, and he made a point of not looking at me until I tactfully steered the conversation into a different channel…what that was, I've no idea; I think it was the life of Chopin, though I have no idea how I got on that subject.

At any rate, I babbled onward rather embarrassingly until his face had returned to its normal colour, and from then on we were more comfortable, dutifully consuming the salad and cold chicken our landlady had provided.

My companion was not amused (though I was, quite so) when he put his napkin down and started to rise from the table, only to have me point out that he had not finished the last of his salad.

"Now, Doctor, you heard the woman – we'll _both_ be in for a dressing-down if you don't finish that," I said in an excellent stern approximation of our landlady's finger-pointing.

He glared at me with a pair of unusually gleaming hazel eyes that suddenly lit with a smirk.

"I'm going to take a nap. You want it all gone, then _you_ finish it," he retorted, spinning smartly on his heel in true military fashion and leaving me staring in consternation after him.

I glanced up in panic a moment later when I heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs, and hastily tossed the rest of the salad into the fire – while I doubt the woman would actually carry through with her well-meaning threats, even I was not brave enough to try her. Thankfully the lady did not notice the smell of roasting lettuce and carrots when she took the dishes with a self-satisfied beam in my direction.

I merely grinned angelically and seated myself at my desk to write after she had gone. I finished that dreadful magazine article and dropped it in the post just now – even if it is second-rate writing, payment is payment and as such the quality does not matter overmuch to me anymore.

I've only a few minutes now before I must start getting ready. I still am quite surprised at the ease with which I asked the Doctor to accompany me tonight – and even more amazed that he accepted with such alacrity.

I had spent two hours worrying over the problem – even three pipe-fuls of shag had not helped me reach a logical conclusion for the business – by the time he arrived back from his excursion abroad. I had noticed in some abstract fashion halfway through my second pipe that it had begun to snow quite heavily, but I did not realise just how much until I heard the door slam below and it jolted me out of my pondering by the window.

I glanced out and noted with some annoyance that the world was already completely coated in white – large thick wet flakes were slapping against the pane and sliding down to land in plopping heaps on the sill. Wonderful. So much for spring being early this year. No doubt it would be freezing by morning – another night spent dreaming I was a polar bear in the arctic regions and waking up to find the dream was not far from reality. And this would be simply superb weather in which to go on an outing tomorrow evening – just lovely! Cold and wet and miserable, to match the mood…

I belatedly realised the door downstairs had opened and shut a minute or two before, but I could hear no footsteps on the stairs. If the Doctor had come back covered in snow I had no doubt that Mrs. Hudson would be fussing over him as she did every time he returned, but the woman had left not ten minutes ago to run a few errands – she should not have delayed his coming up.

I felt my brows draw together and opened the sitting-room door, stepping into the hall to look down. Contrary to my initial thought, I was relieved to see that the Doctor had not collapsed insensible in the hall but was sitting close to the bottom of the stairs, his head bent and his snow-covered shoulders heaving, in an obvious effort to regain his breath.

From the amount of snow covering him and the hall – ooh, Mrs. Hudson was going to be so put out! – he apparently had not been able to find a cab and had been unintelligent enough to walk for a good long while; I hoped not the entire seven hours he had been gone.

Hmm…he no doubt would not appreciate my drawing attention to the fact that he had been too exhausted to make the stairs immediately, but I did not want him fainting there and then tumbling the four steps to the bottom…and I had to talk to the man at some point anyway…what excuse could I use for going down there? Ah, I had left my lens in my coat pocket earlier, I could go down and retrieve it.

"Evening, Doctor," I called cheerfully as I sped down the stairs, past him to my coat hanging on the wall. "There's a pot of hot tea on the table – you look like you could do with a good thawing out."

"Y-yes," he agreed with a shiver, still out of breath. "I didn't r-realise…it was going to s-snow so hard…started just after I l-left Hammersmith…"

I stopped with my hand in my coat pocket, looking at the idiot in consternation. "You walked all the way from Hammersmith Hospital?" I demanded – for the love of heaven, that was probably three or four miles! Not an exorbitant distance for a man in full health, but in his…

He nodded, his teeth chattering too badly to formulate an intelligible answer.

"Why, in heaven's name?" I asked incredulously, finding my magnifying lens in the pocket of my coat and retrieving it.

"F-forgot my wallet," he admitted with a deep blush of embarrassment. "And I ran out of change this m-morning …"

I raised both eyebrows and looked at him. "You mean to say you walked most of the afternoon in this?"

"'M af-fraid so," he muttered, shivering again as snow ran off his collar and down his neck.

"For a physician, you seem to have a rather blatant disregard for your own health, Doctor," I said in annoyance with his recklessness, walking back to the stairs.

"N-needed the exercise anyhow," he replied, attempting a rather faint smile.

I started up the stairs and then paused beside him, extending my hand. For a moment he glared rather fiercely at it, and then his resistance melted like the snow was doing on his collar. He pulled off a soaked glove so that I would not get my own hand wet and then grasped mine (my word, his fingers were cold as ice!), allowing me to pull him to his feet and then lead the way up the steps.

Of course I reached the sitting room far before he did, and I took advantage of the fact to surreptitiously nudge his armchair closer to the fire than its normal position; he would probably never notice.

If he did, he said nothing, for after dropping his coat, hat, gloves, and muffler on the floor in the hall and stumbling into the room, he headed straight for the chair and collapsed with an inestimably weary sigh.

Hmm…now probably was not a good time to ask him if he wanted to go out in this horrid weather again tomorrow night…he would need priming first…what could I do... Aha.

I fixed him a cup of tea and took it over to his chair. He looked up in some surprise – which fact oddly irritated me for some reason, that he should be so shocked that I _can_ actually think of someone other than myself in a good (if ever-so-slightly selfish) cause – and he whispered a tired thank-you as he took it in a shaking hand. I waited until he had nearly drained it and set it beside him before tossing the couch afghan to him, which he gratefully accepted and tucked about his person so that not an inch of his lower body was left exposed.

Hmm…anything else I could do that might put him in a more favorable frame of mind…he looked too tired to appreciate a song on my violin…and besides if I waited any longer he probably would be asleep, for he was already nodding. It would have to be now or never.

"Doctor…mind if I ask you something?" I fumbled awkwardly.

His eyes opened tiredly, but his words were polite as ever. "Not at all, go ahead."

"Are you doing anything particularly demanding tomorrow evening?" I asked, mentally cringing at the awkwardness of this ridiculous situation.

"Not if this snow keeps up – nothing more demanding than staying warm and dry," he replied with a slow shiver. I was fumbling round for how to reply to that when he raised an eyebrow at me. "Why do you ask?"

"Well…the fact is…" I frowned and tried again. "The fact is, Doctor, that a…client…of mine…has given me two tickets to a performance at the Globe theatre…and…I was wondering…if…" Dash it all, I could not even string a sentence into coherency! I gulped and finished the request in double-rapid time – it is a wonder he even understood the words. "I was wondering if you would like to go with me."

There, I had said it. Now what was I going to do if he declined the offer? Physical force was out of the question…I supposed I could make the house uninhabitable, I thought I had a large quantity of sulphur somewhere…

His sleepy eyes were wide awake now as he looked at me with…was it eagerness? Surely not…

"You really want _me_ to go with you?" he asked, taking me completely by surprise. Him as opposed to whom, Lestrade??

"Well…yes, Doctor, if you've nothing better to do," I managed to stammer.

"Are you quite certain? I mean…well…"

"Well what?" I asked curiously.

"Well, the next day is St. Valentine's Day – I thought perhaps you might have a lady you would want to take instead the night before," he said with just a hint of a wink.

"Erm…" I felt my face catch fire and gulped. "No, Doctor…no, I do _not_, I am afraid."

"Well, then, I should be flattered to accompany you," he said with a smile, finishing off his tea and looking at me over the rim of the cup.

I admit to being dumbfounded. "But – you don't even know what the performance is yet!"

"Does it matter?"

For a moment my mind completely fell into a blank. What on earth did he mean, _Does it matter_? Of course it mattered – what if he hated Shakespeare?

"It's _Hamlet_," I muttered hastily, trying to cover up my cluelessness as to his bizarre attitude.

"Splendid!"

Really? It was?

"You sure you're not just accepting out of pity, because you've no one better to spend a night out with?" I asked feebly, for I truly could not understand his alacrity at the moment.

He looked at me as if I had taken complete leave of my senses, and with a sudden edge of sharp wariness. "Did you ask me to go _with_ you just out of pity and because you had no one better to spend the night with?"

I winced invisibly, for he hit closer to home than he knew, but naturally I never would tell him that. "No, no of course not, Watson," I managed to cover up my apparent blunder with all haste.

"Well then," he shrugged easily, slumping back into his chair and allowing his eyes to sink closed exhaustedly once more.

I blinked. _Well, __that__ was comparatively easy…_

Why in the world would he agree with such readiness, not even knowing what the play was? Why exactly _was_ it so easy to convince him…ah.

He said recently he hated being trapped inside. No doubt he does not care _how_ or _with whom_ he gets out of this enforced imprisonment, so long as he _gets_ out.

That is the most logical explanation, of course. Then his peculiar reaction does not puzzle me quite so much.

Now if I can only survive the rest of this evening. At least with his polite-to-a-fault-ness, we will not have to speak during the performance itself…


	32. February 14, 1881

_February 14, 1881_

_9:55 a.m._

The Doctor is still asleep after the late night, and so I am consuming my breakfast in quiet and rather welcome solitude this morning. Somehow thus far (despite Mrs. Hudson's wails of dismay), I have escaped the unfortunate fate of dropping marmalade or such onto my journal; let us hope my luck holds, for I would like to finish this before I leave for the Museum to continue my studies.

Let me see…I then need to send a note round to Lestrade, drop by the stationer's to pick up my new calling-cards (after a month spent in these rooms, it only now occurs to me that my calling-cards still have the Montague Street address on them and that cannot _possibly_ be good for business), and then drop our formal wear off to be cleaned and pressed. Watson insisted he could smell mothballs all through the performance last night – though I think it was entirely psychosomatic, as my senses are far superiour and I smelt nothing other than the upholstery of our box and the thick perfume of the woman in the box adjoining.

Naturally I was well aware of the location and far-too-close proximity of the Whitehall reservations, and it was all I could do to not make a face at my insufferable elder brother when he sent me a triumphant smirk as the Doctor and I seated ourselves a few minutes before the lights went down.

I buried my nose in the programme, half to avoid my brother's smirking and half to avoid having to converse with my fellow theatre-goer, but a few moments later my curiousity got the better of me and I gave the latter a sideways glance of skepticism.

"Are you really that excited about this?" I asked incredulously. "You are fidgeting like a nervous school-girl at her first dance."

Indeed, he was squirming about like a fish, not staying still for a second as he looked about in every direction all at once.

At my words he blushed, stopped his bouncing, and hastily sat back, completely still. After clearing his throat in a bit of embarrassment, "Well…you know I don't get out often," he offered apologetically. "And it's been…a couple of _years_ probably, since I sat in a London theatre."

I took that piece of information in slowly – yes of course, I should have thought of that. I went to concerts and operas and the like so often (when money permitted or brother dearest was on a revenge-spree as he was tonight or my client was in some way connected with the art of thespianism) that the novelty had long since lost its limelight luster.

He wriggled nervously in his seat after making that announcement and started to look about in some sort of childish awe once more. "I must say, it was dashed good of your client to get us such good seats," said he in suppressed excitement. "I invariably get stuck at these things behind someone a good foot taller than I."

I nodded sympathetically. "My particular curse seems to be getting stuck in the middle of a row with two or three people who want to get in and out every so often."

"Or they talk all the way through the performance…"

"Or the woman has so much perfume on one chokes all the way through the first act…"

"Or else a hat so large the feathers poke you every time she moves," he added with a grin.

"Or the fellow falls asleep and his head slams into the back of your chair…" I supplied.

His eyes widened as he looked at me. "You've actually had that happen?"

"Mmhm," I replied with a grin of remembrance. "Nearly scared me half to death, too – I thought the man had been stabbed or something."

He let out a low chuckle. "Must have been highly embarrassing for the poor fellow."

"He never knew it – gave himself a concussion when he hit the seat, " I snickered.

He winced knowingly. "Poor fellow – what a horrible way to spend the evening."

"I suppose," I said in some dubiousness, for the idea had, in all honesty, never until that moment occurred to me. "But you have to admit, it was highly entertaining – far more so than the concert I was enduring."

He attempted to restrain a snicker but did not succeed in the least. "You're horrible, laughing at an injured man like that!" he said in amusement.

"No more so than you for laughing at hearing a second-hand account of the affair," I retorted, sitting back and giving up on attempting to read the programme. "I can just see you when you open your practice – a chap comes in with a broken leg and you start sniggering at his story while setting the bone..."

For some reason this only set him off again into another fit of laughter, and I felt a grin steal onto my face merely out of reaction to his merriment. Said grin faded slightly when I saw Mycroft staring at me in a look of blank astonishment complete with two eyebrows that had long since vanished into his hairline.

I folded my programme to shield my face from the chortling Doctor and stuck my tongue out at my sibling, giving me a great amount of satisfaction and causing his ridiculous stare to hastily avert to his companion's face, answering some question or other from the visiting potentate. Feeling slightly flushed for some reason, I began to fan myself with the programme as I sent one last smirk at my insufferable brother.

Somewhat vindicated, I then turned my attention back to the Doctor, who was absently perusing the contents of the programme.

"Mm, look," he said absently, pointing to a spot on the week's itinerary. I leant over to look at the spot his finger was resting upon and instinctively made a face of disgust.

"They're doing _Romeo and Juliet_ tomorrow, in honor of the holiday," he read with a smirk.

"Ugh."

"Yes, quite. At least when one's evening companion is a man," he said somewhat wistfully, eyeing a tall, brunette, be-diamonded young lady in a purple velvet gown, passing in close proximity below us.

"No female friends yet in London then, eh?"

"Unfortunately, no," he sighed with apparent sincere regret.

I carefully repressed a snigger and schooled my features into perfect placidness as I began to thumb through my programme. "Ah, so that's why you're wanting to 'help out' at a local hospital," I remarked slyly.

"Hm?" he asked absently, leaning over the side of the box to look at the colourful crowd below scrambling for their seats before the lights went down.

"Charity work, my eye. You just want to find an attractive blonde nurse," I said, trying desperately to repress my grin and hiding the fact behind my programme.

"I _beg_ your pardon?!" was his indignant response, and I could tell that even his voice was blushing.

"You did say you wanted to stay in practice…come to think of it you didn't specify practicing _what_," I added wickedly.

"Holmes!"

I received a hard elbow in the ribs just as the lights went down, and under cover of the darkness I allowed myself to give vent to my silent mirth until a moment later when he broke the silence that had settled over the quiet theatre.

"Come to think of it, though, that wouldn't be a bad side benefit," he whispered thoughtfully.

I clapped a hand over my mouth to cover a snort, wondering if Mycroft's keen ears could hear the muffled sound. My companion gave a quiet snicker before subsiding into the silence courtesy demanded of play watchers.

The performance itself was of little note – not for lack of quality, but rather because I have already seen Hamlet at least half-a-dozen times in varying stages of excellency of production. The intermission was slightly more interesting, as I spent the time in pointing out various people down below us and making personal comments about their sundry appearances. After his initial horrified look at my apparent irreverence, the Doctor finally started sniggering along with me when I said one particular little man in the centre aisle had a head the shape of a peanut.

"I wonder if that fellow's wife knows he is taking another lady to the theatre," I wondered aloud absently, poking my companion and pointing to a large and balding fellow who was escorting a woman at least fifteen years his junior.

"You know him?" the Doctor asked incredulously.

"No, never saw him before."

"Then how the deuce did you know that woman is not his wife?"

Oh…I had slipped and was thinking out loud, practicing my deductive skills. Now he was going to ask an endless string of questions…not good, not good at all – the man is like a bulldog with a bone when once he gets his teeth into something…

To make matters worse, Mycroft was sending us both very disapproving looks as we were rather rudely leaning over the side of the box to comment on and point at the people milling about below.

"Erm…ah. Never mind, Doctor; the lights are going down again," I sighed in immense relief as they did indeed begin to dim. Saved, _this_ time. I must make sure there is not a next time until I _choose_ said time to reveal more of my methods to him.

The lights went down, and there was a faint shuffling as latecomers hurriedly resumed their seats once more for the second half of the play. Then suddenly…

"Mothballs," I heard a mutter beside me.

I blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I smell mothballs, I swear it," he whispered. "This suit…"

"I don't smell anything."

"I do. Disgusting."

"You're just imagining it."

"No, I swear I smell _mothballs_ –"

"Shhhhhh!" I've no idea who shushed us, but it was some fellow in the box next to ours. No doubt had Mycroft been within earshot it would have been he.

"Git," I muttered under my breath, irritated at the fellow's impatience (the act had not begun yet, for heaven's sake, and we were only whispering!), and I heard a choked snicker from the Doctor before we both fell silent to watch the second half of the performance.

Once the thing had finished, we waited a quarter of an hour, to let much of the crowd exit before the Doctor attempted those stairs with his leg (I had no desire to try to force my way through a crowd with a half-crippled companion – heaven only knew whom we would bowl over). I was appalled when once we finally reached the thronging lobby, for my infernal brother had apparently been lingering for a closer look at us. He actually, and quite deliberately, rammed his elephantine person straight into us – his obese figure nearly knocking my unsuspecting friend off his feet entirely had he not been gripping my arm so tightly from the long descent down the plush carpeted steps.

I shot Mycroft a very dirty look (which he studiously ignored) and began thinking of ways in which I could make his life miserable for the next few days (perhaps I could bribe his cook to burn every meal for four consecutive days?) as he profusely apologised to the Doctor. I dearly hoped Watson could see no resemblance between the two of us – since our eyes were really the only thing remotely familiar and the lobby's lights were soft, I prayed desperately that he would not make any connection. _Lord forbid…_

"It's quite all right, sir," my companion said hastily, waving off my brother's fluent apology. "Those things tend to happen in a moving crowd. No harm done."

My sibling apologised once more, his eyes running keenly once over the Doctor's figure – not missing a single detail while appearing to be merely politely interested – before he disappeared into the crowd outside, heading to his unmarked coach and whoever that visiting dignitary was waiting within.

"Anyone that enormous needs to watch where he is going," I muttered in (unusually) intense irritation as we worked our way through the lobby toward the out-of-doors, stopping to pick up our coats on the way.

"Holmes, that isn't a very courteous thing to say," the Doctor said reprovingly, wrapping his muffler round his neck as we felt the air begin to grow chilly near the exits.

"What isn't?" I asked, puzzled.

"Calling someone enormous."

"But it's the truth," I protested.

"That doesn't make it the right thing to do," he rebuked sternly.

"Since when is telling the truth not the right thing to do, Doctor?" I inquired pertly, somewhat in the mood for a good debate after a fairly tolerable evening.

We exited the theatre into the street, which was already coated in two inches of grey slushy snow, and the large flakes were still falling thick and fast and obscuring visibility for very far any direction. My companion shivered and plunged his hands into his pockets against the chill before answering my question.

"When it can do more harm than good, truth is not necessarily the best policy," he replied matter-of-factly.

I was somewhat surprised – this from a man so innately honest one could read him with as much ease as one could a child's story-book? – but agreed with him, naturally. There had been, and I doubted not that there would be more in future, many times when I kept back information from the police about various cases simply because it would do more harm to being the criminal to justice than he had done for his crime. As I have said before, I answer to no higher law than my own conscience, and apparently that idea was not quite as foreign to the Doctor as I would have thought.

_Excellent_.

"Ugh…want to fight that mob for those?" I asked dubiously, watching the throng crowding around the waiting cabs lined up outside.

"No, not at all," he replied with a shiver. "We'd never force our way through that – at least I would never be able to, you might."

"Right, come along then. Probably we can find a hansom in the next fifteen minutes or so in this district – if we don't freeze to death by then. Will your leg bear walking for a fair bit?"

He glanced at me with a look of some hastily-covered surprise, which made me backtrack to attempt to discover what I had said that would generate such a reaction…I could not recall…my brain was half-frozen with the cold, anyhow…psh, forget it. On a night this cold one should not be forced to think of anything other than keeping the blood flowing at least sluggishly.

"Yes, I shall be fine," he replied after an awkward silent moment, after which I exhaled in a small cloud of ice crystals and we started tramping through the wintry streets.

Thank goodness that while it was snowing, the wind was non-existent so the chill was not as bitter as it could have been. Still, we walked in wet and frigid silence for about ten minutes, concentrating on scrutinising the gaslit streets for transportation and keeping our hands in our pockets and not turning into icicles before we accomplished the first.

I heard a vague mutter from beside me and sent him a sidelong glance. "What?"

"Mm? Oh. I said I still smell those mothballs," he said plaintively, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

I snorted, sending a cloud of snowflakes dancing ahead of us. "Perhaps you're having an olfactory hallucination," I suggested, half-seriously. Honestly, the fellow has the most randomly assorted topics of conversation…though the unpredictability factor is rather fascinating and a pleasant change…

"Perhaps… but why mothballs, though?" he pondered as we crunched along.

"Doctor, it is _far_ too cold for me to attempt to unravel that strange mind of yours," I said in full seriousness.

"Some other time, then," he replied provokingly.

"Perhaps," I responded with guardedness, but repressing a grin. He was still fishing, though in a more oblique way.

I suddenly espied a cab and whipped my glove off to put my fingers and mouth to work in whistling shrilly for it. We lost no time in clambering into it once it clopped to a slushy stop, thoroughly glad to be at least no longer shuffling through that snow, and settled back in come sort of contentment (as much as one could be whilst freezing half to death). I began categorising the items in my itinerary I wished to accomplish on the morrow (unfortunately, no case was figured into that schedule, more's the pity), when…

"I want cocoa," the Doctor suddenly broke the ensuing silence with a random remark.

I was startled out of my thoughts by his plaintive voice. "Erm…maybe Mrs. Hudson will have tea ready when we get back?" I attempted to counter the conversation but failed miserably in following his train of illogical thought.

"'S not the same…and if I drink tea this late I'll _never_ get to sleep," he said, stifling a yawn that completely belied his words. "Going to be hard enough to anyhow."

"Oh? Why so?"

"Too wound-up, I guess," he said with a small shrug. "It was the most pleasant evening I've had since I left London for the war."

I was temporarily stunned by his candour as much as by his apparent honesty – really, that was pleasant? I mean, I had not minded the evening as much as I thought I would…not minded it at all, actually, now that I really thought about it…but I would not go so far as to say it had been the most enjoyable evening I have spent over the last few years.

"Really?" I asked feebly.

"Mmhm," he said sleepily. "Thank you very much for letting me go with you, Holmes. It was wonderful."

He really has to stop that habit of momentarily knocking rational speech out of my head. Why thank me for practically begging him to come along? _Letting_ him go with me? The fellow acted as if he had been given an unusual privilege. How does one respond to such a sentiment, in the proper fashion?

"Erm…you're more than welcome, Doctor," I fumbled awkwardly. "We…we shall have to do it again, sometime." _There_, I thought that was somewhat appropriate; though the chances of us doing something of the sort again are rather slim (as in _non-existent_ slim), it sounded fitting at the time.

Though perhaps if Mycroft ever took it into his head to blackmail me into sociability again, I supposed there were more frightening ways to spend an evening – like being strangled to death in Billingsgate for one, or being force-fed dinner by Mrs. Hudson for another...

"That would be lovely," he agreed, stifling another yawn.

He was half-asleep by the time we reached Baker Street and I was nodding myself, and with the addition of a small hot toddy and our landlady's kind preparation for our return by way of hot-water bottles in our beds, we lost no time in stumbling our ways into our respective rooms. I spent a (thankfully) dreamless sleep in a more peaceful blankness than I have in many nights – and apparently, judging from the fact that he is not yet awake, so his night was also as calm.

Blast. I should not have been rejoicing at the start of this narrative that I was having unearthly good luck with keeping my writing separate from my eating – I just dropped a large globule of orange marmalade on my opposing page. That is _disgusting_, and now the pages will be sticking together! Not to mention if Mrs. Hudson sees this she will go on for a good half-hour about how she told me that would happen…

And I can hear her approaching the room for the dishes now!

This is not going to be a good day, I can feel it already.


	33. February 14, 1881 II

_February 14, 1881_

_9:22 p.m._

The day did not, as I suspected and predicted, go well at all. And not just because two pages of my journal are now permanently stuck together via a large blob of viscous orange residue.

My calling cards were _not_ printed when I stopped by the shop (even though they had been promised to me by this morning; I shall not be doing business with that particular stationer's again, you may be sure of that). My studies at the Museum kept being interrupted by disgustingly amorous couples passing by, more intent upon studying each other than the material on the shelves, and a brisk walk through Regent's Park to clear my head afterwards only made matters worse, for it was apparently a prime spot for the same sort of idiotic young people, even cold though it was. Disgusting, and quite distracting to a logically ordered mind.

In consequence, by the time I returned to Baker Street this evening around five, I was in the worst black temper I can remember being in for many a week. I never did understand why the powers that be made the holiday of love in the middle of a winter month instead of in the spring, so that people could get all the madness over in one season at least instead of spreading it over two and sickening the fraction of the population who maintained some semblance of logical normality.

I stomped up the steps and tossed my coat in the general direction of the hall-stand, intent upon heading for the sitting room, a fire, and a hot (and stiff) drink, but was brought up short when my landlady exited the room and stood sternly glaring at me, blocking my passage in.

"What is it, Mrs. Hudson," I growled irritably, for I was not in the mood for another of the woman's maternal lectures.

"You, sir, need to quiet down – you're lucky you didn't wake the Doctor with that stamping about!" she retorted in an equal irritation.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked absently, trying to edge round her to enter my domain only to be thwarted by five-feet four-inches of protective womanly instincts.

"Dr. Watson was out all day volunteering at a local physician's practice – he's exhausted, half frozen, and I just got him to doze off in front of the fire," the woman declared smugly. "And if you wake him, there shall be no pudding for supper, is that clear?"

Honestly, that woman could blackmail with the worst of the men I have come across in my profession and come off victor – who on either side of the law wished to trifle with _that_?

"I have no intention of being noisy, Mrs. Hudson," I muttered, feeling my freezing face flush warmly. Did she think I was going to go in there and start throwing things or singing at the top of my voice?

Actually, I _have_ done those things, so perhaps her protectiveness was somewhat justified…

"See that you aren't, Mr. Holmes," the woman admonished loftily, sweeping past me and retreating down the stairs. I cast a dubious glance after her (Women. I do despise unpredictability.) and then entered my bedroom to throw off my soaked jacket, retrieving my grey dressing-gown and then making my way into the sitting room.

I in all seriousness had absolutely no intention of waking him (I am not the most considerate of men by any means, but even I am not _pointlessly_ cruel) – but I had not seen that his black medical bag was lying smack in the middle of the room and in consequence tripped soundly over it, diving headfirst into the sideboard with a loud and very jolting crash that rattled my teeth in my head. _That hurt. A lot._

Cringing and moaning, I cleared the stars from my vision just in time to see the Doctor jump awake on the instant, hastily reaching beside him for something that was not there – probably a rifle, from his army reflexes – before he blinked a few times and realised where he was. He sat back and rubbed his eyes wearily just as I was rubbing my head where I'd struck it.

"Sorry," I had the grace to mutter, though it was his fault (and it served him right, too, the careless idiot!) for leaving that blasted bag in the middle of the floor. "I tripped over this – I'd no intention of disturbing you." _Until you left your property in the common pathway, that is!_

He glanced groggily over, and the sleep dissipated from his eyes on the instant as he saw me and what I had tripped over. A look of repentant dismay mingled with concern flooded his face.

"No, it is entirely my fault for leaving that there. I am dreadfully sorry – I didn't mean to fall asleep and forget about it…" he apologised, covering a yawn. "Didn't mean to at all," he repeated, rubbing his eyes. "Are you all right, Holmes?"

"Yes, no harm done…though I think there is now a permanent dent in that sideboard and probably in my head as well," I growled ruefully, scrambling to my feet. "No, no, don't get up – where do you want this?"

"Anywhere where it won't hurt someone is fine," he muttered, gratefully leaning back in his chair as I shoved the thing under his desk, safely out of the line of my treading. "Thank you," he added, stretching his slippered feet toward the fire.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to murder me," I moaned dolefully, falling into the chair opposite him with a thud.

"Whatever for? What did you do now?" he asked in amusement, offering me a cigar. I declined in favour of my pipe, which I lit before answering.

"Woke you up – she said if I did I'd get no dessert tonight," I growled, exhaling in a cloud of smoke. "Honestly, the woman needs a child of her own to tend to."

"Why should she, when she can practice upon us?" he returned with a smirk.

"Hmph."

I tossed the match into the grate and slumped back into my chair, puffing away at my pipe and trying to figure out if I even accomplished _anything_ I set out to do today. Nothing frustrated me more than boredom, but staying busy doing absolutely nothing made a close second.

"What's wrong…you look a trifle upset," the Doctor said quietly, intruding on my thoughts in such an unobtrusive way I could not truly be angry with him for it.

I actually thought I was doing an admirable job of hiding my irritation with the world, but as I have said the man does have a talent for observation, even if he does not always draw the correct inferences from what he sees. I would _hope_ he would be able to observe to some extent, if he wishes to be a general practitioner at some future date.

"I just accomplished _nothing_ today that I was intending to," I muttered in annoyance, very much not wishing to discuss the fact and prepared to tell him so if he pushed the matter.

"Eugh. One of those days, eh."

I nodded grumpily, exhaling a cloud of smoke in an effort to relax somewhat, for he obviously knew when _not_ to continue a conversation and it was a good thing for both of us he did.

"By the way…have you seen my formal suit? I can't locate it, and I put it over that chair by my bed last night," he said in some puzzlement. "At first I thought Mrs. Hudson was altering it or something but she said she hadn't seen it."

"Oh. I was taking mine to be cleaned anyway so I snatched yours and took it along – no sense in our both making the same trip," I said absently. "You were still asleep, so I didn't ask permission."

"Oh, that's all right – thank you, it was rather kind of you."

I snorted – must the man accept everything he sees in life as if through compassion-coloured glasses? "Kind, nothing – I merely have no desire to hear any more about the mothball smell. What was it with you and that odour last night, anyway?"

He squirmed uncomfortably, and not because his shoulder was bothering him. "I just…hate the smell; perhaps I'm a bit oversensitive about it and I know the suit still smelt of it," he offered feebly.

Oh, no. I was not to be deterred so easily and told him so. He is not the only one that does not let a matter drop until he is satisfied or at least beaten. "Come now, Doctor – there has to be a story behind that else you would not be so fidgety right now," I said with amusement.

"No, not really, it's nothing…" he trailed off nervously, pulling at a loose string on the afghan Mrs. Hudson had given him.

"Oh, come on. We've nothing better to talk about before supper, and neither of us is leaving until the meal arrives anyhow," I pointed out sensibly, and with some entertainment. Nothing like making another man squirm to dispel a black mood.

He blushed slightly and shifted under the afghan. "Well…it's not really important, but…" he glanced at me, I quirked an eyebrow at him over my pipe, and he ducked his head and went on with a sort of odd shyness. "I was just a lad – probably seventeen – I was watching the two-year-old son of one of our neighbours whilst they were in town on business, when the boy sneaked off in the house while I was warming his supper. Being slightly unfamiliar with the place, it took me a few minutes to find him…"

"And?" I prompted with interest, for he looked a trifle uneasy.

"And when I did, he was hiding in his mum's wardrobe – and he had just put a mothball in his mouth. I saw him just in time and yanked the thing out after I got his mouth open, preventing him from swallowing it but not from keeping it in there for a few seconds," he muttered, absently running a hand through his hair in a gesture I had noticed two weeks ago as a nervous habit for him.

I blinked in surprise, for I had been expecting some amusing childhood anecdote, not a crisis.

"The woman's whole room reeked of the things, it was horrible – I still don't know why in heaven's name she even _had_ them in the same house as a small boy," he said with some ire, his eyes flashing angrily.

"But…they're highly toxic…" I said hesitantly.

He nodded. "Yes, they are. Thankfully, I – well, I wanted to be a doctor for a long while, long before I enrolled in the University of London; and even as a younger adolescent I started reading up on treatment and aid for situations I might encounter in such a rural setting, not really thinking I would ever have to use any knowledge that I gained. But then _that_ happened…"

"And you knew what to do for a child who had ingested a mothball?"

"Thankfully it did not come to ingestion, but still the lad was horribly sick for a while," he mused pensively. "I've no idea why I still cringe every time I even faintly smell the things…even after twelve years…"

He was twenty-nine, then. Only two years older than I. Strange…I would have thought from his looks and bearing that he was older than that.

"That's understandable, surely," I ventured. "People hate certain scents for a variety of reasons."

"Yes, I suppose."

"For instance, I personally despise that antiseptic odour that always lingers round you medical men – reminds me constantly of a hospital," I offered with a shudder from personal experience. The smell reminded me of sickness and death as well, but I did not volunteer _that_ information.

"I never even notice the smell unless it's particularly strong," he said with a sudden worried look.

"I was not intimating that you smell of a hospital, Doctor," I rejoined with a small snigger at his dismayed expression. "Merely continuing that logical train of thought with a personal example."

"Oh," he sighed in apparent relief. "Well they do say certain smells are more capable of triggering memory responses than sounds and sights are, you know."

"I believe it," I mused, for I had at one point thought of making a monograph upon the subject – many times odours at the scene of a crime were crucial clues (and not just for lop-eared, Persian-slipper-chewing hounds to track the criminal by, either).

We spent the next quarter of an hour discussing the power and effects of different scents (and I once again was surprised at how well-read the fellow is on obscure and relatively new medical theories) until we were interrupted by the door banging open, causing us both to jump guiltily at the sight of a very ruffled landlady.

"Doctor, you were _supposed_ to be resting," Mrs. Hudson said sternly, setting out the dinner dishes.

"Oh, I was, Mrs. Hudson," the man answered hastily before I could admit to having transgressed. "We were just talking for a few minutes."

The woman shot me in particular a skeptical look but merely asked if we required anything else for supper, to which we replied in the negative and she then left us to partake of the meal.

"Another instance where truth is not the best course of action?" I asked dryly (though somewhat gratefully) as we sat down. "Rather decent of you to cover for me."

"Decent, my eye – I _want_ my dessert," he snorted in complete seriousness.

I grinned, feeling some of my irritation fade away after an hour of actually intelligent conversation and now a decent meal – the luncheon I had at that Italian café was simply abrasive on both the palate and the digestive system.

"So…" I attempted (after six minutes and seventeen seconds of slightly awkward silence) to instigate a cogent conversation. "Mrs. Hudson said you were helping out a local?"

He nodded, swallowing his pork and taking a sip of water before replying. "Stamford matched me up with a fellow he met at Bart's – he may ask me to take his practice for a few hours a week at least if he has to make house calls or go out of the area. Decent enough chap, professional, knows what he's doing. And it's just over in Paddington, so I can walk it comfortably even in the cold," said he with some enthusiasm.

Stamford always was a social butterfly _and_ an incurable busybody. I had no doubt that he was priming the Doctor's curiousity at regular intervals and giving him ideas as to how to elicit more information about me.

I made some polite expected comment and was casting about for something to keep the conversation from dying a thousand deaths when the front door-bell rang from downstairs.

"If that is Lestrade, I shall kill him," I growled, hastily finishing off my greens and reaching for the pudding – I _was_ going to eat it, visitor or no visitor.

It was not, however, but rather our landlady with a telegram for me. I had barely slit the envelope when there was a pattering of little feet on the stairs and Mrs. Hudson gave such a shriek of dismay that it caused the Doctor to jump nervously and spill the contents of his water glass (thankfully nearly empty) right into his plate (also thankfully nearly empty).

The rest of my lingering irritation with the world vanished as I had to laugh at the chaos.

"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson, I know the boy," I said hastily, just in time to prevent poor Bert from being hauled down the stairs by his ear. "I shall send the reply back with him."

"Oi, yoo 'eard Mr. 'Olmes - leggo me!" the urchin squeaked as the woman glared at me in some disbelief.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm certain everything is under control," the Doctor stepped in placatingly, fixing her with a soothing and calming gaze despite the fact that the lower half of his face was still dripping from his impromptu shower and he looked rather comical.

I believe the woman's parting words were something to the effect of "Well I _never_!" before the door slammed, leaving Watson mopping his jaw and wet moustache and my little Irregular shuffling his ragged feet nervously near the door.

"Bert, what is the idea of invading the house in this manner after my landlady told you to wait below?" I asked sternly, unfolding the paper.

"Oi wan'ed ta see where yew park yerself now," the boy chirped honestly. "Oi diddn' know the ol' lady'd get oll tha' upset 'bout it."

"From now on you are to wait below – this is not Montague and Mrs. Hudson is nothing at all like Mrs. Dudley, you hear me?" I inquired with firmness.

"Yessir, Mr. 'Olmes," the boy muttered, peeking about with obvious interest.

I barely registered as I looked down at the wire that the Doctor was watching me expectantly, shooting the child amused glances every few seconds. I scowled at the curt message contained within.

TOMORROW SAME TIME MY ROOMS MYCROFT.

Could the man not leave me _alone_? I barely repressed a scream (or whimper) of frustration and began rubbing my forehead wearily, opening my eyes just in time to see the Doctor offering my errand-boy a lump of sugar from the bowl on the tea-tray, ingratiating himself instantly without introduction.

Oh, introduction – that was the proper course of action in cases like these, was it not?

"Oh…Doctor, this is Bert – he and a few of his little friends run errands and so on for me, carry messages and the like. Bert, this is my fellow-lodger Dr. Watson," I said mechanically, scowling and quite seriously contemplating sending a rather rude and vulgar reply to the wire.

"'Ello," Bert chirped from round his sugar.

"Hallo," the Doctor responded in kind, a smile creasing his face and lighting up his eyes despite the disconcerting fact that his plate was swimming in ice water. The man must like children. Actually, he seems the type to not be particular _whom_ he likes (a dangerous habit) – certainly if he can tolerate my eccentricities then that theory must be at least partly true.

Bert bobbed his head and then turned to me. "Any reply, Mr. 'Olmes?"

I sighed and wadded up the wire, tossing it into the wastepaper-basket. "No, Bert. Fetch me my pocketbook, it's in my coat in the hall. And don't _nick_ anything out of it," I added dryly as the lad scampered out into the hall. "I know exactly how much money was in there."

The Doctor chuckled good-naturedly at the scenario and started in on his pudding (which had escaped the drenching, thankfully) whilst I extracted a shilling from my wallet and handed it to the boy.

"Ta, Mr. 'Olmes. G'bye, gents," the lad said brightly, pocketing his treasure and scarpering down the stairs. A moment later his shrill voice could be heard in raised defensive Cockney tones as our landlady's mingled with it in a stern reprimand for tracking slush into the hall.

"Oh, dear…" the Doctor said, glancing at me. His amusement faded as I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Bad news?"

"No, no, Doctor," I sighed. "Just irritating. Perfect end to a non-productive day."

"You should go to bed early and sleep on it," he advised, polishing off his dessert with a flourish.

We both glanced up as indignant footsteps sounded on the stairs, and I hastily quashed an urge of panic.

"Early as in _now_, I think would be prudent," he added in some amusement as I squirmed uneasily in my chair in anticipation of the coming (possibly painful) encounter.

"I don't want to leave you to face the music alone…"

"Oh, just go. Don't forget your pudding either," he called after me with a laugh as I wasted no more time debating the matter but sprinted for my bedroom.

"You can have it," I shouted back, snatching my pipe and getting the door shut – only just in time as Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded in the room beyond.

Actually his advice is very good, and I believe I shall take it; I remained in here so that I would not chance waking him up again (judging by the silence he fell back asleep after calming our ruffled landlady as only he can) and now I am incredibly drowsy myself.

Now what the devil does Mycroft want this time?


	34. February 15, 1881

_February 15, 1881_

_8:15 a.m._

I simply _must _get this down before I leave to go murder my brother (Yes, Lestrade, in the event that you are reading this private diary then that means of course that you are investigating said murder and _yes_, who else could assassinate a Whitehall official in his own home?), in the event that I actually _do_ murder him and in consequence shall have to flee the country and not see this journal ever again.

But it is far too amusing an anecdote to not put down, even if it is rather an insult upon myself. Mycroft always insisted I could not take a joke, but as usual he is entirely wrong – I am perfectly capable of conceding with grace to a worthy opponent – when no third party has seen the event.

I awoke for reason or reasons unknown in the wee hours of this morning. London was still pitch-black and the sitting room close to it with the blinds and curtains drawn, the only light being from a few embers still glowing in the fireplace and a tiny watery sliver of grey light through a crack in the drapes.

For some strange reason I was wide-eyed and alert when I awoke, my mind whirring like a machine that refused to wind down. When a fit of that sort is upon me sleep becomes both impossible and rather unnecessary – the only problem being that in this instance I had no case with which to occupy my mind and it in consequence was more than likely to tear itself to pieces if I did not discover a solution to the malady in short order.

In the absence of a puzzling problem, I decided some more work on one of my ideas for a monograph might be in order (and might also be tedious enough that my brain would start to shut down enough that I could go back to sleep). I therefore put on my slippers and dressing-gown (for it was still rather chilly although the temperature was slowly rising and beginning to melt the snow apparently; I could hear the eaves dripping in the stillness) and went out to the sitting room.

I did not bother to turn on the gas, as I well know exactly how many steps it is to my desk, the other door, the fireplace, and where each piece of furniture is in the room; I daresay I could find my way with my eyes closed, and most definitely with my superior powers which include an ability to see well enough in the dark.

I did stumble once and stub my toe on the Doctor's armchair, due to the thing's being moved the other night and not put back where it was originally, but other than that I made it to my desk without mishap and began fumbling through the drawers for my papers and research notes, occasionally yanking a sheaf out of a drawer to attempt to read it in the dark grey light seeping through the break in the thick curtains.

So intently concentrated was I in my perusal of the notes that my instincts only barely gave me warning before I heard a soft, stealthy sound behind me in the darkness.

I whirled instinctively, dropping the files and raising my arms in a defensive position, but was immediately set upon by an intruder who proceeded to nearly break my wrist in the very brief scuffle, somehow eluding my initial half-surprised attempt at Baritsu and succeeding in twisting my arm behind my back in a secure and slightly painful position.

I was about to shout out for the Doctor – who knew someone would be breaking into this house this late at night? I had not made any new enemies lately that I knew of! – but froze instantly when a large, strong hand clamped down upon my neck in a very peculiar and dangerous position. I dared not move a muscle, for I well knew that the slightest pressure would send me spiraling into unconsciousness and that a man who knew how to perform that particular maneuver would also know how to snap my neck with one hand if need be.

I swallowed slowly, carefully, not wanting to even move my throat muscles. Then my assailant's voice broke the darkness.

"I would not advise your trying to move just now, sir, if you would like to remain conscious. Now just what were you doing, going through this gentleman's desk like that?"

After my initial stiffening wave of shock, I nearly began to laugh but caught myself just in time, realising the motion would probably make the pressure on my nerve centre great enough to incapacitate me. Instead I swallowed again and tried desperately to force the words out of my mouth with clarity, grinning as I was.

"Erm…Watson…would you mind releasing my neck, if you please?" I gasped. "I should like to spend the rest of this conversation in a conscious mental state, if you'd be so kind?"

I heard an obvious curse in a language I was not fluent in – Hindi? – and the pressure instantly left my neck and my arm, leaving me rubbing both of them ruefully. There was a small crash as he banged into the sideboard, and a moment later a snap and hissing noise followed by a soft glow of gaslight filled the room.

We stood for a moment, glaring at each other across the room, before the absolute hilarity of the thing struck me and I collapsed into the nearest chair, shouting with laughter as I had not laughed in many a week.

"What the devil were you thinking?" the Doctor cried in horror, completely and obviously not half as amused as I was. "I could have seriously hurt you, especially in the state my nerves have been in!"

"Yes, I daresay you could," I chortled, swinging my legs over one arm of the chair and putting my back comfortably against the other to look up at his chagrined face. "Remind me to never attempt to fight a soldier in the dark, will you?"

"This is not amusing!"

"It is to me," I gasped, wiping my eyes. "I must admit you're the first person to ever successfully sneak up on me and best me in a one-on-one fight, Doctor. Terrible blow to my ego, that – and you only have one full-strength arm, too, which makes it even worse!"

He folded both arms (the one gingerly) across his chest and glowered at me, apparently not seeing just how hilarious the situation was, as I tentatively rubbed my neck, where I could still feel his fingers clamping on my nerve centres. My word, the man has a grip that one would never dream of by looking at him – and a nerve of iron, apparently, if he had tackled an apparent prowler alone instead of waking me first when he saw the intruder.

"You have seriously damaged my pride, Doctor," I said at last when I had ceased to give vent to the majority of my merriment. "I have to say I am rather glad I was not a burglar – I never would have lived through those army survival instincts of yours."

His cheeks flushed in mortification as he sat gingerly on the settee across from me. "I thought you were a prowler," he muttered. "Why in the world did you not turn a light on? All I could see was a man going through your desk in the dark, and naturally…"

"It was a perfectly logical conclusion, Doctor," I chuckled, still rather amused by the episode, "and not one to be ashamed of making. Actually I can sleep easier now, knowing that you are capable of defending my precious papers in such a dramatic fashion."

He flushed again under my teasing, shifting uneasily in his seat with a small shiver, and it only then occurred to me that there was no logical reason for his being downstairs _to_ see me, not at this hour…which was close to half-past five, now that I looked at the clock.

"What are you doing up this late, anyhow, Doctor, to catch me at burgling my own desk?" I asked curiously, putting my hands behind my head and cocking my eyes at him quizzically.

He suddenly found his slippers more interesting than my features, apparently, for he dropped his gaze to study them quite intensely.

"Not that it's any of my business," I hastened to add, shrugging and going to the window to open one of the blinds.

It took no great train of logic to deduce that he had spent another restless night or else been awakened by a nightmare – in all probability either his cries or his falling from the bed upstairs (both of which I had already heard happen on more than one occasion) were what had woken me.

The sky was just barely starting to lighten in the east, sending a faint pink glow along the distant sky-line of the grey London morning. Indeed, the temperature must have risen considerably from last night, for the eaves were dripping so steadily it looked like rain and the fog swirling about below was white and very damp-looking. I of course had not gotten sleepy again, rather more wide-awake, my adrenaline flowing freely after the little scuffle, and I felt an itch to do something besides write tedious notes for a monograph.

I heard shuffling footsteps behind me after a moment and then sensed someone looking over my shoulder.

"Looks like the snow will be gone, probably by noon today," I remarked awkwardly, for lack of a better conversation-starter. I hoped I had not offended him by my prying into his reasons for being awake at this ungodly hour.

"Going to be a beautiful sunrise," he replied softly from over my shoulder. No, it took more than my prying to affront the fellow.

"Mmhm…" I trailed off as a sudden idea occurred to me. I turned from the window and fixed my erstwhile assailant with a quirky grin. "What do you say to a morning walk to clear away the cobwebs?"

"As in…_this_ early of a morning?" he gasped, looking as if I had just suggested something absolutely scandalous.

"Certainly!"

"But…but why?" he asked feebly.

"Why not?" I countered sensibly.

"Erm…but…it just _isn't done_," he protested. "It's only half-past five!"

"Well, I am going, and if you want to come along you've got exactly seven minutes and thirty-four seconds to get changed," I shot over my shoulder as I hopped over the chair standing in my way, headed for my bedroom. "Unless you'd prefer to run about in your robe and slippers, which I would not necessarily recommend."

I could tell from his spluttering that I had induced yet another blush from him (I absently wondered how long the man would have to spend in my company before I started having to exert more of an effort to get a reaction from him) but slammed my door shut to change, listening with a grin for signs that would tell me if he were writing me off as a complete Bedlam-candidate or…

Ha. Or if he were pattering up the stairs as fast as his leg would permit, slamming the door and then his wardrobe door in search of his clothing. Jolly good show.

He beat me downstairs, I have no idea how, looking trim as usual if a bit bleary-eyed and still slightly dubious about the proper-ness of tramping about the city at such an hour. I could hear Mrs. Hudson stirring in back, no doubt preparing to go and light the fire in the sitting-room, bless her. As neither of us had a desire to incur her wrath for our abnormal excursion, we sneaked out like two schoolboys playing truant and were down Baker Street hopefully before she had realised we were up and about.

The fog was indeed thick, so much so that I could only make out the vague outline of my walking companion as we strode through the brisk air for a good quarter of an hour in silence. Then…

"I don't think I've ever in my life walked about any city this early," I heard him mutter through the mist.

I snorted in amusement, noting that he used the phrase _any city_ rather than naming just London. Not native to the capital, then. "Have you always lived in London?" I steered the conversation into another verbal fencing match (no time like the present for curiousity) with a question.

He hesitated a fractional second before answering. "No, I was born and raised in Scotland for most of my childhood, actually."

"I thought as much, given your surname and the enunciation of certain syllables in your speech occasionally," I agreed with a nod, even though I doubted he could see the gesture.

He was silent for a moment before speaking with a slight wary edge of suspicion. "You have a habit of dissecting people's speech patterns?"

"A hobby of mine, yes," I agreed complacently. "Occasionally you roll an _R_ where a purebred Londoner would not normally, and there are a few other instances where your pronunciation varies just ever so slightly from the usual. Details, but then there is nothing in life so important as details."

He processed this for a long moment, no doubt filing it away for consideration at a later, and probably warmer, time.

"And you?"

"And I what?" I asked with a streak of purposeful mischief, for I knew well what he was continuing but was not about to be taken so easily.

"How long have you lived in London? You appear to know every street and mews and by-way and building and stable-yard in the entire city – have you always lived here?"

"No," I replied simply, grinning after I said it at what I knew had to be a growing frustration on his face.

"Are you going to force me to guess, or be a _normal_ human being and simply tell me?" he finally asked in exasperation.

I chuckled, for I was well-satisfied with the frustrated reaction. Besides, turn about was fair play, tit for tat, and there was no harm in divulging an innocuous bit of my history. "I've lived in London for almost three years now," I told him. "I just happen to have an extraordinary mind and memory for details."

"So I have observed," he mused. "You came to London the year I finished at Netley then…are you younger than I?"

"By two years, if you were seventeen twelve years ago as you said earlier this evening…last evening, rather."

I had grown slightly uncomfortable by now, hoping the conversation did not take the direction of his asking me where I graduated from, for I had not and somehow…I've no idea why, but…somehow I wonder if an educated man would look down upon one who had chosen to educate himself in the specific areas he chose rather than relying on a traditional scholastically-sanctioned university for doing so.

Luckily for my unease of mind, at that moment the sun broke up above the buildings, starting to burn up the fog and also blind us in its yellow glare, reflecting off the large spreading puddles made by melting snow.

"Ow," the Doctor muttered, holding up a hand to block the glare, and giving me time to steer the conversation away from its previous bent into a less volatile channel...something to do with a stuffed wolf I saw in a pawn-broker's window that we passed.

"Cleared enough cobwebs away yet, Doctor?" I asked about ten minutes later.

"I suppose so," he grumbled a bit petulantly, obviously still irritated at having to be awake at six of the morning.

"Then I suggest we head for home, as Mrs. Hudson will no doubt be wondering where we've got to."

"I hope she makes a _very_ hot breakfast this morning," he said with a slight shiver.

"Cold? It's milder than it has been."

"Yes, I know…it's the damp, I think," he replied. "Get into your bones and stays like a wet virus."

"The coffee had better be strong, that's all I've got to say," I muttered, stifling a yawn.

Not only was this an early morning even for me (though I required little sleep, the body did have a habit of pretending that it needed an exorbitant amount by yawning and so on) but I would need something slightly stronger than black coffee if I were to survive the morning without murdering my elder brother.

So absorbed was I in contemplating how that feat was to be accomplished (the fratricide, not the coffee) that I nearly got run over by a dog-cart in the fog, had the Doctor not warned me in time as we were crossing the street toward 221B.

Though that would have been a preferable fate to the one that awaits me shortly – in fact I must now dash off or else suffer the wrath of a thwarted elder sibling for not showing up when he so summons.

I believe I should prefer being run over by a cart. Filled with crates of machinery, yes.


	35. February 15, 1881 II

_February 15, 1881_

_8:15 p.m._

A morning with my brother and an afternoon spent following different sergeants around Scotland Yard to watch the inner workings of that organization did not serve to put me in any sort of good mood, and I was quite glad to come home, skip my supper (much to Mrs. Hudson's dismay), and retreat with my violin into my bedroom to sulk, from whence I have not emerged and will not until I jolly well feel like doing so.

My brother was atypically tolerable when I arrived, the traditional way this time; by ringing the bell and waiting for him to lumber to the door and open it.

"Come in, Sherlock, do come in," was his (highly suspiciously) cheerful greeting, and it instantly put me on my guard. I do not like chipper people, and especially ones who are never so unless they are up to some mischief.

"Brother mine, you have not shown this much interest in me since I was less than ten years old – being summoned to the pleasure of beholding your presence twice in one week is an unexpected delight but one that I do not wish to make a regular habit of," I said impertinently, flopping myself down into his most comfortable armchair and putting my feet up on his table. "You wanted nothing whatever to do with me when I came asking you for money before last Christmas."

"Remove your shoes from my coffee-table, Sherlock. Thank you. And you really must drop that sarcasm so soon after breakfast – it is neither pleasant nor becoming to a man your age, and dashed unsettling to those around you," my sibling sighed, seating himself in the largest chair across from me.

"That is the general idea of utilizing sarcasm in conversation, but for the sake of both our busy schedules I shall drop it and be more unambiguous – what the devil do you want this time?"

"I trust you enjoyed your outing the other night, Sherlock?"

"Quite," I answered succinctly. "And if that is all you desired to ask, then I shall wish you a very good morni-"

"Sit _down_, Sherlock. I am not through with you yet," Mycroft warned me as I had started to make a beeline for the door.

I scowled and flopped back down in the chair in a reclining position, affecting an attitude of extreme boredom and closing my eyes.

"So tell me about him, Sherlock," I heard my brother's voice penetrate my Herculean attempts to ignore him.

"Him meaning whom?"

"Really, Sherlock, you are not an idiot as we both well know so do stop pretending to be one. This friend of yours –"

"He is no friend of mine, Mycroft," I said in annoyance, opening my eyes in order to effectively glare at my brother's outrageous insinuation.

I was met with a raised eyebrow and an inquisitive gaze that rivaled only mine. "Really?"

"Most definitely not," I snapped. The very idea, indeed!

"Well be that as it may, you obviously are a friend of his," my brother returned, completely unruffled.

"Rubbish."

"Honestly, Sherlock! You know it is not a capital crime to have someone you can at least tolerate for more than a few hours at a time?"

"That _hardly_ constitutes a friendship, Mycroft," I snorted. "Barely even a business relationship. One can tolerate a Scotland Yard inspector's company for a few hours at a time, or even that of a cat or dog or even _your own_ horrid company – tolerance hardly means the same thing as a camaraderie."

"That is completely off the subject, and you are purposely diverting the question."

"Which was…?" I asked through gritted teeth, glancing at my watch. He had to leave for Whitehall in fifteen minutes, thank heaven.

"What do you think of him, Sherlock?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are not hard of hearing, Sherlock, nor did I stutter. And I have neither the patience nor the time for aimless chatter. What do you think of him?"

"You are going to have to be more specific, Mycroft," I growled, squirming in my chair at the discomfort of the conversation's strange bent.

My brother rubbed his temples wearily in a familiar _why-do-I-even-bother-with-you_ gesture. "Specifics? Very well then…do you enjoy his company?"

"As opposed to whose – yours? Then definitely. Lestrade's? Absolutely. Any of those idiots at Bart's? Naturally. My own? Certainly not. What is your next question?"

"You are absolutely insufferable, Sherlock!" my brother expostulated with a rare burst of feeling.

"I was actually thinking the same thing about you, brother dear. Now are you finished giving me the equivalent of what our police friends call a brutal interrogation?"

"_Hardly_," my brother rumbled, settling back in his chair with an evil gleam in his watery eyes. That was _not_ a good sign. "You appeared to be rather enjoying yourself night before last, Sherlock. A rare thing, for you, in a setting such as that."

"Bosh," I growled rudely. "You forced me to go, I went, I made the best of a ghastly situation. That hardly is the same thing as enjoying myself."

"You were _laughing_, Sherlock."

"What of it?" I demanded irritably.

My brother looked at me as if I had suddenly shown the first signs of acute dementia. "Sherlock. You. Do. Not. Laugh. In. Public," he said slowly, enunciating every syllable. "I cannot remember the last time I saw you laugh genuinely with people around, much less _snigger_ as you were doing all through that intermission – and that is completely not taking into account your grinning before the play even started."

Why was his apartment growing so warm? The temperature must indeed be rising rapidly out of doors; the snow would be gone in an hour at this rate. I ran a finger round my wilting collar and glared at him. "I was not sniggering."

"You were sniggering, and you were getting the Doctor to do it too. You are a perfectly appalling influence, Sherlock."

"Are you interrogating me, or lecturing me, Mycroft – because I cannot deal with both simultaneously from you!" I growled.

"I am merely trying to ascertain the reason for your bizarre and out of character behaviour."

"There was nothing bizarre about it!"

"Come, come, Sherlock. When I ran into the two of you in the lobby, you were arm in arm!"

"Nothing of the kind!" I exclaimed in horror. "We had just come down those thirty or forty steps, and the man is a cripple for heaven's sake – common courtesy as well as common sense dictated that if I did not want to be embarrassed by his tripping and falling the whole way to do the decent thing and help him!"

"Mmhm."

"I absolutely despise you sometimes, Mycroft!" I hissed angrily, thoroughly incensed at the man's unruffled complacency.

"Yes, quite. Act your age for a moment, Sherlock, and leave the juvenile insults until afterwards, there's a good fellow? The point is, cripple or no, you absolutely abhor anyone invading your personal territory – you refuse to ride in a lift if there is even one other person inside!"

"Well?"

"And you decline to shake hands with a fellow upon meeting unless courtesy absolutely demands it on pain of embarrassment."

"And?"

"Sherlock. You have been known to walk two miles in the rain rather than have to share a cab with someone."

"Well, what of it?" I demanded hotly.

My brother planted his enormous face in his hand in a gesture of surrender. "You…are absolutely impossible, Sherlock," he finally moaned. Ha, I had gotten through that smugness to irritate him at last. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

"Thank you, brother," I replied cheerfully, accepting the statement as a compliment, although a dubious one, and tugging at my collar due to the unaccountable stifling warmth of the room.

"Get out of my house, Sherlock," my sibling sighed. "I must attempt to return my mind to things that are capable of being logically categorised and explained if I am to have any sort of successful day at Whitehall. Well, go on, what are you waiting for?"

I pulled a rather childish face at him and headed for the door, glad to be rid of that piercing gaze. I was halted with my hand on the knob by the sound of his voice as he rose from his chair and headed back toward his bedroom, stopping to speak.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?" I asked in some curiousity, for his voice had lost that absolutely annoyed look and was more calmly pleased than anything else.

"Whether you consider that man to be a friend of yours or not, in all probability he does consider you to be his, and more than likely the only one he has. For heaven's sake, brother, do nothing to destroy the first thing I have seen in several years that could make you look at least semi-happy as you were the other night," my brother said soberly, waving a fat hand and disappearing down the corridor for his coat.

Bah. Where do all elder siblings from time immemorial get off thinking that they have some sort of inherent right to order the younger around?

I shook off the unease that still lingered over me from that odd and very disconcerting conversation and ran the errands I still had to do before snatching a sandwich from a café and bolting it in the cab to the Yard, where I spent the afternoon learning more closely the inner workings and processes of Scotland Yard. Not a very pleasant or rewarding job visibly, but all knowledge is useful if docketed and applied when needed, and I had been intending to take Lestrade up on his offer of allowing me the opportunity for some time now.

I emerged with a headache, an intricate knowledge of all things police procedural, and a ravenous appetite. The snow had almost completely melted, and Baker Street's gutters and cobblestones looked more like rivers and stepping-stones than anything else by the time I swam up to my front door and let myself in.

The house was quiet, the Doctor was nowhere to be seen, and so it was not until Mrs. Hudson brought up dinner (and about time, for I was fairly famished and looked forward to it eagerly) that I was forced to talk to anyone – a pleasant change after being chatted to death by a couple of well-meaning but incredibly dense sergeants all afternoon at the Yard.

I had noted that there was only one plate on her tray just before she spoke.

"The Doctor's out with that young fellow Stamford," the lady informed me cheerfully as she laid my plate. "They were going to spend the afternoon together in this mild weather and then go to supper in the Strand, the Doctor said. He was quite excited about going after he got the fellow's letter after breakfast – talked about it all the morning after you left, he did."

"Indeed."

"There you are, Mr. Holmes. Will you be wanting anything else, sir?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I replied in slight irritation, waving off the woman's flurrying fussing with the china to be _just so_. I was not even very hungry.

She was not at all happy that I left my meal mostly untouched and took myself sulkily off to bed straight after, where I am now scribbling this before going to sleep after the early morning.

The Doctor has not come back yet, and it has started to rain quite hard. Stamford has a brain the size of a Brazil nut, and so the probability lies in the way that they both will have pneumonia by tomorrow evening. He is, as I said in my previous entry, an infernal busybody.

I am going to bed now.


	36. February 17, 1881

_February 17, 1881_

_11:05 a.m._

I received not one but two clients after rising early yesterday morning. I was forced to turn one down almost immediately because it was evident from the man's story that the lady he wanted me to clear of a murder charge was only too guilty, unfortunately for his misplaced affection. Though in the long run he shall be grateful to me, as he most likely would become the fourth moth to get burnt to death in that particular murderess's flame. A magnificent criminal, but a crime so obvious that Lestrade could (and did) solve it the day after the murder was committed.

The other case took me out to Portsmouth for the remainder of the day and night, and I returned early to a rain-drenched (and it was still pouring sheets) London this morning five pounds richer than I had left, and within a week I should have my client's promised reward of thirty pounds for the recovery of the diamond necklace. During the short but instructive (and lucrative) business I also had the rare treat of engaging in a pub brawl, a less frequent occurrence than one would think by looking at my violent case record.

I was still rather proud of the fact that I had single-handedly taken out a dozen or so men (granted, in varying stages of inebriation) when I arrived back at the house, intending to tell of my prowess in glowing terms that would convince that skeptical Doctor once and for all that I could indeed box, and against a man considerably my superiour in weight and size. I had not even seen the fellow since the morning of our ramble about the streets at dawn, as I had left yesterday before he had risen from his night out with Stamford, merely leaving a note for him to tell him I would be away for a while.

Not that he would even notice.

I heard Mrs. Hudson bustling about in the back and smelt bacon cooking as I took the steps two at a time and flung my bag into my bedroom before shoving the door to the sitting room open, where it clattered with a loud bang against the wall.

To my surprise (for it was early yet; I had taken the very first train), my fellow-lodger was up and reclining on the settee, but he fairly leapt clear out of his seat when I slammed the door open.

"_Must_ you do that?" he snapped, glaring at me with all the patience of a toddler.

I blinked in utter surprise, for the man was never cross with me – grumpy of a morning, yes, but never snappish, and over such a stupid trifle as my method of coming into a room.

"It _is_ rather hard to enter a room without first opening the door," I retorted with some heat, stalking past him to my bedroom in something of a huff (there are enough times that I am purposely annoying; he had no right to be so ill-tempered when I unintentionally am so). "Next time I shall make sure to send a note ahead to _warn_ you of my approach first."

I had shot this last over my shoulder before yanking my sopping coat off and tossing it on the bed, scowling after it when it slipped off the other side and fell to the floor (though in retrospect, that was probably a good thing for my coverlet as the coat was soaked to the lining). I swore under my breath and opened my valise to unpack my clothing, putting the items (for once; Mrs. Hudson had better be appreciative of my efforts) back where they belonged, my mind appreciating the simple familiarity of the action.

"I'm sorry," a quiet voice broke through my whirling thoughts, and I glanced up to see my fellow-lodger leaning on the doorframe, watching me. "I…" he trailed off for a moment, his brows furrowing.

"You _what_?" I retorted peevishly, shoving my collar into the drawer and not caring if it got wrinkled in or after the process.

I glanced back up to see him rubbing his temple, and when he spoke I got the feeling it was not what he had originally intended to say. "Nothing. I apologise for being so rude; there was no excuse for my unreasonable ill-temper," he said quietly, and turned to walk away without another word.

Blast the man, now I felt culpable for over-reacting to his very natural response (a bit over the top in my opinion, but not extreme) to my boisterous entrance. I am not in the least accustomed to feeling fault over _anything_, much less an insignificant incident, and I did not _at all_ appreciate his making me feel so uncomfortable.

I further did not appreciate it when a very loud thud caused me to jerk upward, startled, and hit my head on the drawer above me, which I had (unfortunately for my cranium) forgotten to close.

After I had done howling with pain, I scrambled to my feet and headed for the sitting room, from whence the noise had come, and felt yet another peculiar pang of slight remorse when I saw that the Doctor was prone on the floor scarcely five feet from my bedroom door, raising himself on one elbow with a somewhat dazed expression and cautiously feeling the side of his face.

"Did you hit your head?" I asked, crouching in front of him and studying his expression.

He shook his head with a small wince. "No…dizzy for a minute," he muttered. "Lost my balance…equilibrium is all off…"

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine," he replied instantly – more automatically than truthfully, I suspected.

"Well, you are the physician, you should know," I answered dubiously, standing up and extending my hand for him to take.

He did not hesitate to accept it (which both surprised me and was slight cause for concern as normally we would spend the subsequent fifteen seconds in a glaring match) and permitted me to pull him back to his feet where he swayed for a moment, cocking his head to the side and shaking it with an expression of discomfort.

Unaccountably the similarity ran through my mind that he looked ridiculously like my little Toby when he was puzzling over a strange scent. But I hastily stifled the snicker that rose in my throat when the Doctor started to step forward and then swayed unsteadily once more. I instinctively grabbed for his arm and was quite startled to feel him cling tightly to me for a moment while he fumbled for the back of the couch with his other hand.

"Watson, are you quite well?" I asked in some small alarm, for it would not do to have him be ill all over Mrs. Hudson's prized settee. She would never forgive us. Not to mention that particular situation would not be pleasant in any way for either of us. And we would have to pay for the thing to be re-upholstered and I had no intention of spending my necklace-reward-money on so frivolous a household item.

"I'm fine, just…" he muttered, rubbing the side of his head gingerly.

Hmm…dizziness, that strange habit of moving his head to one side, the continued massaging at his temple and ear, the sensitivity (_over_sensitivity) to loud noises…and the fact that Stamford had all the sense of a sheep and most likely had not paid for a cab ride home for him at the close of their night on the town...

"You've an earache, is that it?" I supplied, for it was the obvious deduction.

"I'm afraid so, a rather bad one," he murmured, shaking his head again as if hoping to clear the pain inside. He showed no surprise at my diagnosis nor did he resist or even protest when I pushed him in the direction of his former sitting position. "Forgot my umbrella the other night…woke up yesterday morning with a raging earache and congested head. I feel fine otherwise now, but I can barely hear a thing out of my right ear."

"With the exception of doors slamming into the walls?" I asked mischievously, my former irritation with him gone now that I knew there was a logical explanation for his bad temper, and not that he was growing weary of my company.

He winced but then smirked when he saw that I was teasing. "Indeed."

"Have you a fever?"

"No, so it is not an infection," he replied, frowning and tilting his head. "The horrid thing is that confounded _tintinnus_…that and the pain, of course."

"Can't you put something in it?" I inquired, reaching for my before-breakfast pipe and stuffing it with tobacco (I had not been here to smoke the day before and so had no dottles left over to begin with).

"Yes," he sighed uncomfortably, "warm sesame oil and various herbs can be used to ease the pain for a while."

"But it's obviously not working," I pointed out.

He shifted uncomfortably. "I haven't got any supplies on hand."

"Yes, but the apothecary does, and it's not that far," I said sensibly. "Oh…" I added in understanding as a clap of thunder rocked the house. "Not a good idea to go out in this, eh?"

He nodded ruefully. "I used the little I had yesterday morning when I woke up with it so bad – then Mrs. Hudson was away for the rest of the day at a friend's, baking bread for some church bazaar..."

"You mean you haven't had anything for it at all since then?" I demanded. For pity's sake, he should have sent for a messenger or Stamford (since it was _his_ fault) or _someone_, the stubborn fool…

He shook his head, scowling and massaging the offending ear gingerly. "It isn't that bad."

"Did you even tell Mrs. Hudson?"

He glanced up in horror. "No, certainly not," he said emphatically. "She thought I was at Bart's all day yesterday – she would have taken my head off had she known I was actually here in bed."

"She also probably would have got you something for it, you idiot."

"And then she would have mothered me about it all evening, night, and morning," he added, ignoring me. "I cannot stand being fussed over."

"That in itself is mere foolish pride, and probably will someday get you in serious trouble for your ridiculous refusal to accept help in any form from anyone, Doctor," I snapped in irritation.

"You are a fine one to talk of getting into trouble," he snorted, though not in real exasperation. He glanced up as I puffed on my pipe furiously. "And I am fairly certain if I could live through a Jezail bullet to the shoulder, an earache is no more than a mild annoyance. I will survive."

"But meanwhile you're going to be miserable," I pointed out in derision, extinguishing my pipe as we heard Mrs. Hudson on the stairs with breakfast. "Look, I have to run down to the stationer's later anyway; want me to stop and have some supplies sent back?"

"No, but thank you," came the immediate response.

"I'll take that as a yes, coming from you. It will have to wait until after breakfast, though," I replied with a smirk. My companion glared at me for a moment before an expression of pain crossed his face and his resistance fled with his comfort.

"Are you certain you don't mind?" he asked weakly, rubbing the side of his head furiously.

"Doctor, one thing you should learn about me now is that I never make an offer I am not prepared to back," I replied dryly. "Now granted, I am not a messenger-boy and I have no intention of traipsing all about the city in a rainstorm for your every whim, but this is not far out of my way and I have the time if you so wish it."

"Then thank you, and I do appreciate it – I admit I was not looking forward to braving that downpour later but it's bad enough I was going to have to," he admitted, moving slowly to his desk while holding onto the mantel for balance. "I'll just scribble down a list, if you'd be so kind."

Kind. Now _there_ was a word I did not often hear attached to my name. The idea nearly made me snigger aloud – what would my brother say to that!

"And I am sorry about being so rude a moment ago," he muttered with a short glance at me as he leant over his desk to write.

"Well, it was a perfectly natural reaction in your situation," I returned cheerfully, opening the door for Mrs. Hudson and greeting her with a cheerful good-morning. I am not sure she was very thrilled to see me back.

I could not see the Doctor's face, bent over the desk as he was, but I could see his ears had turned red as he had apologised again. Honestly, the man has far too sensitive a conscience if he could still be feeling guilty over snapping at me upon my entrance a half-hour ago. I mean, after all, the fellow offered a quite handsome apology. Let the thing drop, for the love of heaven.

I adopted a habit and general principle long ago of never offering apologies – too many emotions are involved and too much work goes into the process to make it worthwhile to cogitate the proper touching response.

Besides, I am never wrong and so never have occasion to offer one.

But just the same, I did feel ever so slightly regretful that I had met snappishness with equal ill-temper – common sense would inform me that is a bad idea, but for some reason I had reacted without thinking. Not a habit I wish to indulge in often or encourage. And since this was really little extra trouble as I was going right past the apothecary's, then it was a relatively effortless and useful way to salve my ever-so-slightly twinging conscience.

A small sacrifice of five minutes and a dry collar in exchange for ridding myself of that unusual and disconcerting feeling of guilt (I, guilty? Rubbish, but I can think of no other explanation that will cover the facts) is a logical and decent bargain by my way of thinking.

But I was going to throttle Stamford when next I saw him for being an inconsiderate fool and making a mess that I had to clean up after the fact.

The situation had been slightly strained, but Mrs. Hudson did nothing to help matters when she laid our breakfast, with her screech of dismay as I told her the Doctor was not feeling well.

"I am sure that helped the earache immensely, Mrs. Hudson!" I hissed as the poor fellow jumped in shock, his pen flying out of his hand to hit the desk with a _plipp_.

"Oh, Doctor, I'm so sorry," the woman fairly wailed in a voice that hurt even _my_ ears.

True to his kind nature, the Doctor hastened to assure the good lady that all was perfectly fine, and thank you very much for the breakfast, and no he was not in an unbearable amount of pain, and yes he would tell her if he needed anything else but Holmes was going to get him some things from the apothecary and that should do nicely, etc., etc.

Finally our landlady ceased her fussing and left us alone with our breakfast. I began spearing bacon pieces whilst the Doctor finished his list and then turned to bring it to the table.

I dropped my fork as he swayed unsteadily, but then he caught his balance and glanced sheepishly at me, tilting his head and making a face. I merely shrugged and resumed stabbing my breakfast while he made his way to the table.

"Here you are – and thank you again," he said gratefully as I exchanged the meat platter with him for said list, tucking it into my pocket.

"Mmhm," I agreed absently, glancing over the morning paper. Nothing of interest whilst I was away, apparently. Wonderful. Perhaps Lestrade would have something.

"So how was Portsmouth?" my companion inquired, breaking the shell of his soft-boiled egg and dumping nearly half the contents of the salt shaker into it.

"Wet," I summed up the entire case in the one word, jerking my knife over my shoulder to indicate the window. "Worse than here."

"I was hoping against hope the rain would hold off until Stamford and I were done with supper," he remarked, casting a rueful glance at the deluge still pouring outside. "No such luck, and it was dashed hard to find a cab in the wet. Didn't help that the fellow was too busy chattering aimlessly about everything under the sun to even look for one," he added with a roll of the eyes, absently tugging on his earlobe as he dashed pepper into his egg.

I glanced at him in a bit of interest. "He is a rather…_talkative_…sort," I agreed cautiously. Now _that_ was the understatement of the century…

"Ergh," was the expressive response I received to agree with my opinion.

I grinned. "Perhaps _that_ is the cause of the earache, and not the weather," I offered slyly. "Strained or overworked auditory muscles."

He abruptly choked on his bacon, and I nearly had to leave my chair to pound him on the back before he coughed and finally took a long drink of coffee.

"Medically improbable, but despite that I might be inclined to believe it," he chortled, slicing up the remainder of his meal. "The fellow is certainly very…friendly."

I snorted, nearly filling my sinus cavities with hot coffee. "That is definitely one word for it. He used to be positively garrulous if you got him talking for long enough."

"Or with a strong enough bottle of port?"

"Yes, that would do it too," I snickered. _Served him right_. Stamford could be a royal bore, and when half-tipsy even worse (as I had had the misfortune to discover on the one solitary occasion I accepted an invitation to dinner out with him a few months back – he had been paying and I was short of cash and Mrs. Dudley was making a meatloaf; these being the only reasons I did accept in the first place).

"Remind me to never make that mistake again," he muttered good-naturedly, finishing off a piece of bacon and starting on his second egg.

_Oh, I will, Doctor, believe me. I certainly will_, I thought with glee.


	37. February 17, 1881 II

_February 17, 1881_

_10:54 p.m._

As if in mockery of my efforts to make shallow reparation for my temper of the morning by going out in such inclement conditions, the rain suddenly decided it would be amusing to fall horizontally instead of vertically, effectively drenching my outerwear (and half my clothing) the moment I stepped out the door. I had had the foresight to send for a cab, and halfway down Baker Street I espied another bit of foresight that would save me a few shillings.

I shouted for the driver to stop and hauled a dripping, swearing little boy up into the vehicle, dodging a wet fist before the lad saw who I was.

"Yoo oughta know better'n ta scare a bloke like tha'," Bert grumbled, sitting back with a disgusting squish.

"I haven't the time to waste in getting your attention by the conventional means – I want to get out of this rain as soon as possible," I retorted.

"Blimey, don' we all…" the boy muttered. "Wotchoo wan' wit' me now?"

"I am stopping at the apothecary's – stop here, Driver! – and I want you to run back to Baker Street with the package I give you when I come out," I informed the lad, hopping down from the cab. "Wait here, if you please, driver."

"Look, yoo betta be payin' a bit more than reg'lar if oi 'ave ta run about in this bleedin' storm," the boy said shrewdly.

"I'll pay you a half-crown, and that's all," I said in amusement at the lad's attempt at bargaining.

"Mm…"

"Plus you can tell the Doctor or Mrs. Hudson I said to give you some warm milk and a scone when you get there," I promised rashly. No doubt one of the two would rise to the occasion; if not, they could deal with the child and welcome, I had done my part in braving the elements and my responsibility ended here.

"Deal. Yoo betta 'urry, yer gettin' awful wet," the urchin pointed out helpfully.

Indeed I was, and I lost no time in handing Watson's list over to the man behind the counter, paying for the items, and then heading back out to Bert, who hopped off the seat to the pavement with a small splash.

After seeing the boy off with the parcel and his precious change (he had saved me two shillings for not having the shop boy deliver the stuff) I continued to the stationer's, whence I retrieved my new calling cards (_finally_ they had been printed correctly) and then beat a hasty retreat back to Baker Street, not intending to leave at all the rest of this exceptionally wet and gloomy day.

I found, to my amusement, that the Doctor had succeeded in the impossible – getting Bert to sit on the settee _without slouching_, balancing a mug of warm milk in one hand and a biscuit in the other. The urchin gave me a left-front-tooth-less grin as I entered, running a hand over my soaked hair.

"Holmes, you're positively drenched!" the Doctor said in dismay, starting to stand from his position in his armchair.

"Yoo betta siddown, gov'," Bert interjected doubtfully as he saw how unsteady the fellow's balance was.

"He is right, Doctor – I assure you I am drier than I imagined I would be by this time," I replied reassuringly. "Please sit. I trust the order was correct?"

Judging from the way he was tilting his head toward the left in my direction and from the cotton I could see in his right ear, he had lost no time in applying the remedy.

"Quite," he sighed gratefully. "It feels better already, thank you."

"Mmhm. Bert, hadn't you better be getting along? And do _not_ drop biscuit crumbs on my newspaper on your way out!" I called over my shoulder in annoyance, seeing the as yet un-sifted through _Times_ lying precariously under his dripping foot. I entered my bedroom and began to divest myself of my soaked jacket and shoes.

I heard a loud gulp or two and then a smacking of satisfaction. "Tha' new lan'lady o' yours is sure a sight betta cook than tha' ol' bat a' the other place, Mr. 'Olmes," he hollered into my bedroom (from the hall door and not the sitting room one, out of respect for the Doctor's condition) as I donned my dressing-gown.

"Yes, indeed…" I said with a sigh, trying to push the soggy lad in the direction of the stairs. "Now take your money and go home."

The lad bobbed his head hastily and shot down the stairs, out the door and into the rain, splashing into a puddle with a jubilant whoop before Mrs. Hudson could even raise a protest. I returned to the sitting room.

"How much was the total?" the Doctor asked me, cheque-book in hand. "Minus the half-crown for delivery, I mean; I gave that to the lad."

I stopped in the act of lighting a cigarette. "The delivery?" I asked in surprise.

"Yes, the delivery fee – that boy said he usually got a half-crown for delivering in the rain so that was what I gave him, plus a usual tip," the Doctor replied, apparently quite puzzled.

"That little imp!" I cried, flopping myself down in my chair with a laugh and drawing on my cigarette.

"What?"

"Doctor, I paid that child at the apothecary's to deliver that stuff – he took you in and _rolled_ you, I believe the common term is, for however much you gave him," I chortled, laughing at his disgruntled expression.

"The little scamp…" he muttered, but his good-natured amusement finally won over his initial dismay and he grinned ruefully.

I chuckled. "Smart lads, those street urchins. I really can't remember the total off-hand exactly, Doctor; we can discuss the matter later."

"Are you certain? At least do not allow me to forget about it, will you?"

"Yes, quite," I waved the matter off absently.

I watched as he selected a book, occasionally massaging the skin round his ear, and then carefully made his way to the settee where he managed to get himself in a reclining position after a few moments, wincing as he propped his legs up.

"Doctor?" I asked, but apparently he could not hear me through the cotton in his ear. I tried again, a bit louder. "Doctor?"

"Yes?" he replied instantly, turning his head toward me.

"Will it bother you if I do some reorganizing of my files in here? I could make rather a mess, I warn you," I asked politely (I was perfectly capable of being courteous when I chose to; I merely did not see most people and situations worthy of the effort the majority of the time).

He watched me closely and hesitated a moment before answering. "No, not at all – but I can go upstairs if you need the room to yourself," he offered.

"Certainly not. By the way, are you reading my lips, or can you hear me?"

"A bit of both," he admitted. "But no need to speak up, please," he added hastily.

I nodded and then began to methodically (for me at least) sort out the box of papers I had dragged from under my bed – many of them needed to be simply tied together and put away, but some I wanted kept within easy reach for reference.

I had not realised so much time had passed until I reached a stopping point and looked round me, noting with some surprise that my "methodical" filing had taken up most of the available space, including a sheaf of case notes that I had stuck on the Doctor's lap and another upon his legs (he had fallen asleep about an hour before, probably due to some light pain reliever he had taken for the earache) for lack of space.

I was about to retrieve the files in question (for he might wake up at any moment) when the door flew open in much the same way as I had opened it this morning, slamming into the wall loud enough to rattle the picture over the sideboard, sending it swinging in an arc back and forth several times.

The Doctor was jolted rudely awake, scattering my files everywhere in a papery shower as he jumped, and he instantly put a hand to the side of his head with a small moan.

"Lestrade, you idiot!" I exclaimed, sitting back on my heels and glaring with all my formidable might at the clueless little official who stood framed in our doorway, staring at me in surprise with his mouth opening and shutting like a common pond goldfish. "Were you always this colossally brainless, or is that something you picked up from Gregson?"

"Holmes, really…" the Doctor murmured remonstratingly, starting to move his legs to the floor until he realised it was covered with white papers – now scattered everywhere along with the case notes I had set aside upon his sleeping person.

I was still fuming, but the Inspector was as clueless as he always has been, staring at the floor, now littered with white.

"What the devil are you doing, Mr. Holmes?" the little official gasped.

"Sorting files," I explained succinctly. "What are _you_ doing – have you not heard of being announced?"

"Your landlady recognised me and told me to come up when I said it was urgent," the man protested, miffed.

"I would offer you a seat, Mr. Lestrade," the Doctor said dryly, poking his head up over the couch, "but…"

"Oh, hallo, Doctor…I didn't see you there," the man stammered in surprise.

My companion nodded tiredly, absently rubbing the side of his head with a wince. "Holmes, I'll need to get through this stuff if you've business with a client…what do you _not_ want trodden on the most?"

I smirked, both at his refreshing humour and also at Lestrade's incredulous expression – no doubt he thought the man was raving mad for not being surprised at my flinging papers about. But the Doctor really did not look quite well, and without thinking I placed a restraining hand on his right shoulder as he started painfully to rise.

"Never mind, Doctor, we can go somewhere else – I've no desire to have my papers touched for one thing, nor do I want you attempting those stairs with a bad leg and worse equilibrium at the moment," I said dismissively. "How about that café on Regent Street, Lestrade? Or did you come to fetch, not consult, me?"

"Erm…to consult, Mr. Holmes…that would be fine…" the fellow was gulping and staring at me as if I had lost my mind completely.

"What the devil is the matter with you?" I asked in annoyance, hopping over a stack of files and skidding slightly when my slipper fell upon a folder, scooting me precariously toward the fire.

"Look out!" the Doctor called in alarm, but I caught myself (and my precious folder) before we came close to being more than slightly singed.

"I'm all right, I'm all right," I said hastily, tossing the folder at him on my way to my bedroom. "One moment, Lestrade, and I shall be completely at your service."

My fellow-lodger reached up and caught the folder with one hand. "Where the blazes do you want this, or do you even know?" he called, obviously grinning.

"Mm…anywhere, it doesn't matter," I shouted back, pulling back on my slightly damp jacket and shoes and returning to the room.

He smirked at me and then tossed the sheaf of documents at random into a nearby pile before glancing quizzically at me. "I hate that you're running about in this weather – it's really no trouble for me to go upstairs," he protested, looking at me with something I supposed (for I could think of nothing else the look could be) was medical concern for my welfare.

"Nonsense, Watson. The rain isn't anywhere near as bad as before," I said cheerfully, giving the still gaping Lestrade a not-so-friendly push out of the sitting-room door. "And I've no desire to have to make another medicinal run because you concussed yourself on the banister. Call Mrs. Hudson if you need anything."

"Take your umbrella!" he called after us as we started down the stairs.

"What's wrong with him?" Lestrade asked as I donned my outerwear.

"Out in the storm day before last, has a bad earache this morning," I replied shortly, opening the door and scanning the street for a cab.

"Mm," the policeman murmured in sympathy. "Half the force has been out with head colds, influenza, and the like for the last month. Nasty weather, this. My old mum used to say hot sesame oil and garlic was good for earaches…"

"Yes, so the apothecary told me this morning when I stopped for his supplies," I replied distractedly, trying to ascertain through the rain if that were a hansom…yes, what luck!

"The apothecary…told _you_?" I heard Lestrade's incredulous question only a moment before I took off through the rain, my umbrella scattering droplets everywhere including his face.

"Yes, why?" I shouted as he caught up, whistling for the cab to stop.

"Why were you going instead of him?" the man asked stupidly, climbing into the seat beside me.

"You really think a sick man – and an injured one – should be walking about in this mess?" I asked in annoyance.

"Well, no, certainly not; but…I never thought _you_ would ever have a second thought about the idea," was the unexpected (and insolent) rejoinder.

I scowled in irritation. "Lestrade, I am not employed by you to exchange personality quirks and discuss variants of thinking methods. Now what brings you in from Lewisham to consult me on what appears to you to be an open-and-shut case against the wife of the deceased?"

I love making people gawp and squirm – in this case the Inspector looked even more like a goldfish than he did in the house; and the amount of water drowning the world at the moment only added to that image.

We spent the rest of the afternoon discussing the matter and then digging through the police files for information on a parallel case back in Southwark in the early '30s, which I insisted had significance and Lestrade said was poppycock but at this point he was willing to take any chance.

Of course, I was right and he wrong. The inevitable conclusion.

At any rate, it was a wet, long, but rather profitable day. I only just got in a half-hour ago and the house is entirely still and quiet – an extremely pleasant change after the bustle of Scotland Yard and its inmates (none of whom seem to number intelligent conversation among the requisites for donning a badge and truncheon).

Now for a long night's sleep, with my only problem for thought being what I am going to do with my client's reward money, outside of sending my brother a box of fine ipecac-laced imported chocolates…


	38. February 18, 1881

_February 18, 1881_

_8:25 p.m._

I was quite amused this morning when I awoke and went to the sitting room, finding (to my astonishment) that in my absence the Doctor had apparently sorted my files by the dates at the top, stacking them into months and then years and leaving four neat piles (three for my years of practice and one pile of notes that were not dated) on the settee, well out of range of trampling feet. Now all I had to do was decide which of the things I wanted to keep out; he had saved me quite a few hours' work by fixing the scattered mess I had left yesterday.

Actually, I found that I was quite grateful to him – such a rare and infrequent feeling that it put me rather on edge for quite a while afterwards, as I am not accustomed to feeling thankful for anything and even less accustomed to being forced to thank a person for doing something; what the devil was I going to say to him when he came down?

But then the thought struck me, and I grinned at it – he probably had done the job as much for his own benefit as for mine; it gave him a very plausible excuse to look through my private things in an effort to learn more about me. I was rather lucky that these were only vague case notes; to all appearances just vague papers with my name not actually mentioned (and that was if he could read my handwriting and abbreviated notation at all, an accomplishment even my brother never has been able to attain). They would tell him nothing he did not already know, namely that I could name every detail of every crime perpetrated in the last hundred years or so.

Regardless, I was spared the trouble and discomfort of having to thank him because he had not arisen by the time I breakfasted and left the flat (and no, I did not purposely rush my meal to avoid having to show my appreciation…much).

Thankfully the rain had stopped, but the temperature was dropping yet again – this weather was enough to make a man disown his city and flee to the Continent until summer; at least in the Alps the snow was consistent. It was this mixture of freezing rain and sleet and snow that sickened and killed people and made them irritable with each other for four months (if we were lucky) out of the year in this metropolis.

Case in point, the dockyard workers and general roustabouts I spent the day working with. I make it a habit to go round to all my informants once a month at least and check on them, reminding them that they work for me and that I have ways of making them regret it if they do not cooperate with my organised canary ring. As long as I perform this duty in the daytime, I am relatively safe; the one time I attempted to do it of an evening one of the more friendly of the fellows suggested I might have need of a bodyguard and that I should never venture into Whitechapel without arming myself more heavily than with a stick.

Unfortunately, his suggestion had merit as I discovered on the one occasion I was foolish enough to put it to the acid test. I now go round to my informants in the daylight hours – or at least what is supposed to be daylight, for on a day such as this the sun never even decided to get itself out of bed and show its face to a populace shriveling for want of light.

The temperature had dropped considerably and the wind had a nasty bite to it by the time I reached Scotland Yard this afternoon to check up on the progress of that case for Lestrade, see what new and unusual bodies had turned up in the Thames this week, and generally aggravate everyone I could get my hands (and words) on in the organization. I spent an entertaining two and a half hours annoying the police-surgeon in the morgue before Lestrade took pity on the frustrated physician and rescued him from me, threatening to lock me in with the corpse being dissected overnight if I didn't "stop that infernal theorizing, Mr. Holmes!" etc, etc.

I therefore turned my attentions to my ferret-faced client instead, and was finally all but forcibly evicted from the premises two hours later. But I had got my fee from the man, the case was solved (not that I shall get the credit for it), and so I cheerfully (if frigidly) made my way home, eyeing the grey-black cloudbank overhead and wondering if the powers that be would be kind enough to refrain from dumping snow all over me before I reached Baker Street.

Unfortunately, I apparently am not one of the Deity's favoured few of mortals, for tiny icy white flakes began to slap (not drift, _slap_) down upon me before I had even reached Wigmore Street. More like miniature balls of ice than snow, and of course there was not a cab to be seen. I therefore was not in a very sweet temper when I finally stumbled into the warm hall of my lodgings, shedding my stiff coat and hat, and thumping up the stairs, drawn to the fire in the sitting room as if iron to a lodestone.

No sooner had I taken my seat, rubbing my half-frozen hands together, than my landlady entered with a small tray bearing my day's post and a cup of hot tea, both of which I accepted eagerly.

"Did I have any callers today, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked absently, thumbing through the four letters.

"No, sir," the lady replied, taking my now-empty cup. "Neither you nor the Doctor. And just as well, for I don't think the Doctor is feeling quite well."

"No?" I asked a moment later, only registering the latter part of my landlady's worried statement after I had looked at each letter.

"No, sir – he was only up for about an hour sometime after you left, and then he went right back to bed afterwards, and he wouldn't let me bring him anything to eat or drink all day," my landlady fairly wailed in her dismay.

I paused with a wince in slitting one of my letters – upset females are definitely not my _métier_. "I am sure he is fine, Mrs. Hudson," I tried to console the offended woman…though his not eating anything was definitely an oddity, it was not real cause for concern – I only ate when I felt like it, and that did not mean I was unwell in the least.

"Perhaps you could talk some sense into him, Mr. Holmes?" the lady asked hopefully.

I sliced my finger open with the envelope flap in my surprise, yelping and sticking the offending digit in my mouth temporarily. "I? Sense about what?"

"Mr. Holmes," the woman said sternly, towering over me (as I was sitting down), "he cannot afford to go an entire day without eating, unlike _some_ people I could mention. But I shall not have a man starve to death in my own house!"

"I assure you, legally you would not be to blame if that were to happen," I answered somewhat distractedly, perusing the letter in my hand.

I was sliced again, on my palm this time, when the missive was yanked from my hand by an incensed landlady. "Mr. Holmes!"

I cringed, that childhood instinct that resides within all our souls being awoken by the sound of an outraged mother. "What did I say?" I asked feebly, eyeing the door and my chances of making it into my bedroom. Where was the Doctor and his diplomacy when you needed him?

"You are the most selfish man I have ever been acquainted with, sir!" the affronted lady snapped at me, her hands on her hips.

I bristled (no one talks to me in that manner other than my brother!), but my protest died when I saw the woman's anger fade back to that maternal worry I had seen upon my entrance. I pinched the bridge of my nose in an effort to bring my brain back into the game, for it had been forcibly evicted by this startling spitfire of a landlady not fifteen years my senior.

"What exactly are you wanting out of me, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked finally in exasperation.

"Try and get him to eat something, Mr. Holmes?" the woman begged pathetically.

"Mrs. Hudson, he is not a child – he's a soldier, and a _doctor_, and I assume as such he both is accustomed to going without food and also knows when he should eat and when he should not," I replied impatiently.

"A sick man is not a logically thinking one, sir," the woman retorted pointedly. Was she intimating that when I skipped a meal she thought I was sick? Oh, _lovely_…

"Mr. Holmes, are you even listening to me?"

I winced at the outraged screech. "For the love of heaven, do you suppose that is helping the earache?" I demanded, for now I had one myself from being in close proximity to a woman scorned.

"Very well." My landlady's eyes gleamed evilly at me. "If you wish to play the game that way, Mr. Holmes, then we shall. You are not getting supper yourself until you can persuade your friend to eat something. Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

And before I could answer around my spluttering (he was not my _friend_, blast it, I _had no friends_!), the woman had flounced regally out of the room and shut the door behind her. Of all the nerve! This was blackmail!

As if adding its own protest to the injustice of my treatment, my stomach growled hungrily, and I remembered belatedly that I had not eaten lunch due to the fact that the fish and chips my informants were partaking of looked to be only so many slabs of chopped grease and newsprint.

I scowled and paced the room for a few moments before I was forced by sheer hunger to yield the battle and started ascending the stairs to the upper bedroom. I knocked first, and upon receiving no answer I hesitantly opened the door slightly.

"Doctor? Are you awake?" I hissed uneasily through the small opening.

The room was dark, but a small grey light seeped in through the blinds and I could see him lying upon the bed on his side. He stirred at the sound of my voice and blinked a few times slowly – good, I had not awakened him from a deep sleep at least.

"Holmes? What's the matter?" he asked, seeing me skulking in the corridor. He rubbed his eyes and lifted himself on one elbow, glancing at his watch on the bedside table before looking back to me. "You may come in, it probably will make conversing a bit easier," he said with a weak smile, lying back down and putting a hand to his head.

I wanted nothing less than to turn and run (I never have liked sickrooms, besides the fact that I could catch whatever he had), but it would be rather awkward and stupid to continue to talk through a crack in the door; so I stepped in and left it ajar behind me.

My word, it was like an icebox in this room…

"You can turn the light on," he murmured, indicating the jet by my head. Glad of something to occupy my hands I did so, filling the room with a soft glow and then turning back to him. Something in his voice did not sound quite right.

"Are you ill, Doctor?" I asked rather foolishly, and not realising how incongruous that exact sequence of words sounded until he smiled weakly. I nearly smirked myself but stopped when he looked up at me – he did not look right either.

Evidently he could see my thoughts in my face, for he nodded. "I'm afraid I spoke too soon when I said there was no infection – woke up late last night with a fever, and it hasn't gone down since," he said tiredly.

"Mrs. Hudson's worried about you," I said feebly, unable to come up with anything more useful to say in the awkward situation. _I hate this…_

"She sent you up, then?" he asked wearily, closing his eyes.

"Erm…yes…but neither of us knew you were actually ill – she's just worried you'll waste away and give her board a bad reputation for the next lodgers," I fumbled for the right words, attempting to inject a bit of humour into the awkward situation.

I was rewarded by a weak chuckle from the sick man. "She's been bully-ragging me all day," he murmured.

"Well she's moved on to different territory now," I said dryly. "I'm to get no dinner until I can convince you to eat something."

His eyes, rather too bright, flew open in amusement. "Are you pulling my leg?"

"No, I am entirely serious!" I exclaimed indignantly. "Why else do you think I am standing here interrupting your rest?" _Not as if I wanted to be up here!_

He murmured something that sounded like "sure I've no idea" but was rather unintelligible due to his teeth chattering, as he shivered and pulled the blankets tighter round him, huddled up in a miserable ball.

"It's freezing in here," I said in annoyance – that could not possibly be helping matters. And a physician should know the fact – what was he thinking?

"D-don't I know it," he muttered.

"That can't possibly help you if you're sick."

"It's fine," he sighed dismissively, closing his eyes once more.

"No, it is not," I retorted, quite annoyed at his stubbornness and defiance of my opinions.

"Yes, it _is_." He pulled the coverlet up to his nose in an obvious gesture of ignoring me. _Oh, no you don't._

"No, it is _not_," I snapped. "You could catch pneumonia or something."

His eyes flickered open in amusement. "Holmes, you cannot _catch_ pneumonia, for one thing – and for another, you will not contract it or anything like it from a mere ear infection," he said, the grin on his face muffled by the blanket but still evident in his voice. "It's just a fever from the infection, not any other malady."

"Well, you are the Doctor," I snorted. "If you die in your bed then Mrs. Hudson had better not blame _me_ for it."

He chuckled from under the blankets before he started shivering again. I frowned, feeling my eyebrows draw closer together, for he did not look well at all, poor fellow. The whole right half of his face seemed to be swollen and inflamed, or at least felt that way judging from the pain constant in his eyes.

I suddenly realised I was completely forgetting my mission and entire purpose of being up here – I was being distracted.

"So, Doctor," I said cheerfully. "When can I tell Mrs. Hudson you would be ready for supper?"

He made a noise of dismay. "I'm not hungry, Holmes – the vertigo is causing me some severe nausea..."

"At least have some tea or something – frankly, you don't look good, Doctor," I said matter-of-factly, studying his pale face and too-bright eyes in the soft light.

"She really said you wouldn't get supper if I didn't eat something?"

I nodded.

He sighed wearily, rubbing the side of his head with a noiseless moan of pain. "Very well…"

"Capital!"

"I do not think I can navigate those stairs like this, though," he murmured, his face flushing in embarrassment.

"I am sure she will absolutely _adore_ the opportunity to bring it up to you," I returned with a knowing grin, backing out the door before he could throw something at me.

The expression of absolute panic on his face nearly made me laugh aloud. "Don't abandon a comrade to that, Holmes!" he pleaded desperately. "She's a regular martinet, worse than any commanding officer I ever had…"

I merely laughed and shouted down the stairs for Mrs. Hudson to bring up supper. Then I returned to the icebox of a bedchamber. I glanced at the bedside table and saw that he had his thermometer and supplies for his earache all well within reach; good.

I shuffled my feet uncomfortably, not knowing what to say and what the blazes most normal people did in these situations…I cast my mind back in desperation to last month when I was ill after my impromptu tuna-crate excursion, trying to remember something that might help besides standing here awkwardly staring at him…_aack_, he was looking strangely at me, raising an inquisitive eyebrow…I had to say _something_…

"Erm…can…can I get you anything, Doctor?" I finally blurted out, feeling my face flush despite the chill of the room. _Please say no, please say no, tell me to go away…_

His fatigued eyes lit up slightly, which was a good thing I supposed. "Actually…I've been stuck up here all day and I don't want to sleep any more," he said ruefully. "Would you mind fetching me a book to read or something?"

Oh, good. Now that was simple enough; I could do _that_ certainly. "Of course – does it matter what?" I asked, thinking that all those horrid novels were alike anyway and that it really should not matter.

"I've a new Clark Russell story, actually, that I got the other night when Stamford and I were in the Strand…" he trailed off weakly, rubbing his eyes with one hand for a long moment.

I took a tentative step forward in uncertainty, but a moment later he shook his head and looked back up at me. "Sorry…vertigo again," he murmured, tilting his head to one side and blinking in an effort to steady his vision.

"That's all right – where is this book of yours?" I prompted.

"Wrapped in brown paper on my desk, unless it got moved," he sighed, shivering and pulling the coverlet closer round him.

"Right. I have to say, I hope that idiot apologises to you when next he sees you, for not sending you home before the storm hit," I growled, starting to edge toward the door. _Three more feet, and I would be out of this room…_

"It wasn't his fault," the Doctor protested. "Neither of us were paying attention to the weather…he was blathering and I listening, I grant you; but still, we just were not paying attention."

"If he is so chatty and you do not enjoy that, then why did you go with him?" I asked grumpily, opening the door.

"Because…" he trailed off softly, and I spared a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Finally he shrugged, huddling down into the blankets. "Because I grow weary of being alone sometimes," he finally whispered miserably, closing his eyes in a gesture of dismissal to me.

I made a hasty and tactful retreat to the sitting room for his blasted novel, his last words (he really _must _be ill, for never when he was completely lucid would his pride ever have made such a personal admission to me) ringing in my head.

Was that even possible – people in this world actually did not _enjoy_ being alone?

I find that rather hard to believe; but then there are many things about that fellow that I have found it hard to accept…


	39. February 19, 1881

_February 19, 1881_

_6:10 p.m._

This is the first chance I had had to write in this little history book of my life in the last twenty-four hours, due to unforeseen events completely beyond my control, and I am scribbling the entry in a small coffee-house on Oxford Street. How I came to be here instead of in front of a warm fire is a lesson in speaking without first thinking and/or allowing my mouth to be run by impulse instead of rational logic.

I slept fitfully last night, due to the fact that the temperature dropped to well below freezing and the ice piled up onto every inanimate object in the city, effectively sealing the house (along with the rest of the world) in an impromptu deep freeze. I was half-frozen when I finally gave up attempting to doze and went out to the sitting room fire around seven this morning, cursing the winter of my discontent (literally).

I was not at all enamoured with the idea of being forced to spend the day indoors – but with the ice coating the streets and everything else, no doubt only emergency vehicles would be on the roadways and all men with a half ounce of sense would be staying off them. If Lestrade needed me that badly to wrap up that case, then he could jolly well come and get me; I was not chancing bronchitis or a broken leg by venturing out in the weather, regardless of how much I chafed at inactivity.

Once the room had warmed up a bit (by that meaning that I could no longer see my breath in front of the fireplace), I began to slightly relax; no doubt I could use this time to organise my index and sort those files that still lay where the Doctor had stacked them on the couch (I had entertained no desire to fix them the night before).

My mental list of tasks for the day was interrupted by a heavily-bundled and be-shawled Mrs. Hudson, who had evidently heard me stamping about and was now bringing me up a boiling pot of coffee.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said, actually sincerely grateful for the brew as my insides could do with a bit of thawing. Despite the woman's forcefulness in certain areas (and her skill at blackmailing), one must not snap at the hand that feeds him or else one may find that he no longer _gets_ fed.

"You're quite welcome, sir. And you might take a cup up to the Doctor, Mr. Holmes," the lady replied, setting down the tray.

"Mmph?" I asked absently, trying to focus my eyes (I was shivering) on the newspaper in front of me and listen at the same time – not an easy task. My vision was abruptly blocked by an empty cup and a pointing finger, and I glanced up in annoyance.

"What is it, Mrs. Hudson?"

"The Doctor," she said dryly. "Take him a hot drink – that room has to be so cold and he was up most of the night…or didn't you know?"

I felt my face warm suddenly – the fire must have flared up. "Erm…I do not pay much attention…" I found myself stammering for some reason under the woman's stern gaze.

"Then you should have," she retorted, taking my paper from me – _give that back! _– and glaring at me. "He did not sleep well at all. Now go on – don't make me threaten to withhold your breakfast!"

"But…" I spluttered indignantly. "He is probably not even awake now!"

"He was awake when I checked on him an hour ago," the woman declared. "I am sure he will be grateful to see you, Mr. Holmes. Now go on."

I opened my mouth in a defensive retort but the woman smirked triumphantly at me and shut the door before I could voice my protests. I scowled at the barrier and petulantly flung the cup and saucer back onto the table, where it shivered and settled with a small crash, before I picked up my paper again and turned to the agony column. I was at least going to read _something_ before leaving this warm room for so trivial an errand.

Once I had satisfied myself as to the innocuousness of the paper and its desolation of interest to anyone of a remotely educated mind, only _then_ did I pour a cup of coffee (noting that it had lost a good deal of its heat in the cold room while I was reading…I hoped he did not care if it was not able to burn his tongue) and grudgingly plopped two sugars in it before tightening the sash of my dressing-gown against the chill and mounting the stairs.

I gasped and caught my breath (which I could see in the room) upon knocking and then entering without waiting for him to tell me to, for the air was positively frigid in the dark room. The Doctor was apparently sleeping sitting up (no doubt to help his ears stay clear), the covers pulled up to his chin, but his eyes opened when I turned the gas on just enough to keep from tripping and spilling the coffee on my way over to the bed.

"I would say _good morning_, but I highly doubt that it is," I ventured in an effort to start the conversation, for he looked barely able to.

I was rewarded for my pathetic humour with a weak smile that widened when I handed him the cup of warm (not hot) coffee.

"You didn't have to do this," he murmured, taking the cup with obvious gratitude.

_Actually, I did, Doctor_ was on the tip of my tongue but I refrained from saying it…for some reason it gave the fellow a strange sort of pleasure to think I had thought of the idea on my own – and who was I to disillusion him that I merely wanted my breakfast in a timely manner, and _without_ being burnt beyond recognition?

I fidgeted uneasily beside the bed for a moment, resisting the urge to turn and run now that my mission was accomplished (for no doubt I would only have to return later to get the cup back from him); and during the few seconds it took him to finish the drink my powers of observation categorised the dark circles under his eyes and the way he gingerly swallowed, as well as the shivering that still shook him. No doubt his immune system was already weakened from his still-recovering body, and this illness was certainly not helping matters.

It was only when he had finished and I took the cup back from him that I started in surprise as his hand brushed mine – his fingers were as cold as death.

"Good heavens, Doctor," I gasped. "You must be freezing!"

"Actually…I'm rather hot," he whispered, putting a hand to his own forehead and then sighing in relief at the chill contact.

"I am no physician, but even I know that this cannot possibly be healthy – you need to come downstairs; you're never going to get rid of that fever if you stay up here," I said with a frown.

"Can't…every time I try…I get dizzy," he replied weakly, glancing embarrassedly up at me in a look of utter shame. For pity's sake, did the man think illness was some sort of weakness?

"You've been trying?" I demanded angrily. "And you haven't told one of us?"

"Just last night…got so cold up here," he murmured, wincing and putting a hand to his ear at my raised voice. _Oh, brilliant. Now you've made the earache worse._ I never was good at these things.

"You should have called Mrs. Hudson or me," I said sternly. "Now get up and get your dressing-gown on, you're going to have hypothermia if you spend another day up here."

He cocked an eyebrow at me quizzically. "Once I get to that sitting-room, I shan't be able to move much," he said. "What if you have a client?"

"On a day like this? Not a chance, unless the man is a complete idiot in which case I do not want to be consulted about his problem _anyway_," I retorted sensibly, tossing the man's dressing-gown and slippers at the bed on my way out the door to yell for Mrs. Hudson to hurry breakfast up.

He joined me there a moment later, though he looked positively ill and was leaning on the wall with one hand for balance (or lack thereof, in his case), the other pressed against his ear as he shook his head in discomfort.

The movement was not the smartest idea in the world, for shaking his head like that only served to throw his equilibrium off and I was forced to catch his arm abruptly to prevent his tumbling down the stairs, an action for which he thanked me rather brusquely. No doubt he found the whole situation to be hardly more comfortable than I was.

We made it halfway down before he had another attack of vertigo, hastily clutching hold of both the railing and my arm as I cringed, anticipating being forced to explain to Mrs. Hudson why a still-recovering war veteran had just broken his neck on our landing.

Thankfully, however, he made it the rest of the way without further mishap, and I saw that he had reached the settee (I hastily moved the papers to the floor) without falling in the fire before going to refill my coffee-cup, for I was now half-frozen despite the warmth of the sitting room.

"Ohh…" the Doctor growled plaintively behind me.

"What?"

"I forgot my book," he grumbled. "It's still upstairs."

I rolled my eyes. "Surely it will not be going anywhere before you are feeling better?"

"But I wasn't _done_ with it, and I was at a crucial part in the plot," he scowled petulantly, slouching on the settee and looking for all the world as if he'd lost a good friend.

_Note to self: Is cranky either when not feeling well, or when his precious books are missing, or a combination of both. Do not touch the books._

I was prevented from having to counter his pouting by the entrance of Mrs. Hudson with our breakfast. She took one look at the Doctor on the settee and then nodded approvingly at me before setting out the dishes – what _that_ was all about, I had absolutely no idea.

The poor Doctor made the unfortunate mistake of saying he was "not very hungry" in the stalwart woman's presence, and in consequence netted himself both a lecture and a plate of ham and eggs plopped unceremoniously right down on his lap, much to his dismay and my amusement. Mrs. Hudson fussed over him for the next ten minutes, hovering to see that he started on the food, before I finally rescued the poor chap by asking the woman if we could have another pot of coffee.

He shot me a grateful look that faded to a rather sickly shade of grey as soon as the door had shut behind our landlady; he moaned and covered his eyes with one hand, holding the plate out of sight with the other.

I repressed my initial snicker and took the plate from him, tossing the food into the fire before returning the plate to its resting place on the tray.

"Is it gone?" he asked, still with his gaze averted.

"Yes," I chuckled, digging into my own breakfast with an appetite.

His eyes appeared once more from behind his hand as he leant back with a sigh.

"What did you do with it?" he asked curiously, eyeing my own plate.

I pointed with my fork toward the now blazing fire, and he grinned before a look of dismay crossed his face. "Oh, no…" he moaned. "Now she's going to think I absolutely bolted the stuff and fix me more!"

"You really should eat _something_, Doctor – I'm sure the woman would make you some soup or some such," I suggested sagaciously.

He merely shook his head, turning onto his side with a wince and fumbling for the blanket on the back of the couch with one slightly shaking hand.

"I thought you were hot?"

"I w-was," he replied in dismay, and I could see even from my position at the table that he was shivering again. I frowned – though the temperature fluctuations were normal for a fever, I knew from experience that it was deucedly annoying and uncomfortable. And that afghan was hardly large enough to cover his legs.

I shoved an entire piece of toast in my mouth (Mycroft would be so proud) so that I could eat and snatch the extra blankets from my bed at the same time, accomplishing both swallowing the bread and jam and tossing him the other blankets at the same instant upon returning to the room. I then sat back to my meal without having been forced to skip a beat.

My fellow-lodger murmured a word of thanks and lost no time in huddling down under the covers and promptly dropping off to sleep in front of the fire. His shivering lessened after a while and was almost non-existent by the time Mrs. Hudson returned with the other pot of coffee, which I drank in its entirety (I would _not_ recommend that on a day where one's sole energies must remain confined indoors due to bad weather) over the course of the morning.

I had nearly finished my paper-organising by the time luncheon arrived – soup and hot sandwiches, a perfect repast for such a nasty winter day. The Doctor had been sleeping uneasily for the last hour, and so it was no surprise when he woke at the sound of the door shutting behind our landlady.

"I got her to leave, only because I promised to see you drink this," I told him, pointing with my spoon to a bowl of steaming soup.

He pulled a face but agreed to have the broth – no doubt as a physician his common-sense won over his nausea at the present moment – and as I'd nothing better to do over my meal (I had already looked through the post and all the papers to find them all equally devoid of interest) I plunked my person and my bowl into the chair across from the settee, tossing the platter of sandwiches down in between us.

This amused him to no end, apparently; but whether it was the cardinal sin of not eating at a table or the fact that I was keeping him company that brought such a ridiculous grin to his face, I could not be certain. At any rate, in the absence of an intriguing mental problem, intelligent conversation was a fair consolation prize and if it would make him happy then I saw no reason in avoiding it if I had nothing better to do anyway.

Halfway through the soup (I watched to make sure he was not putting it in his mouth, not down the side of the couch) my eye fell on my now neatly-stacked papers, and I hastily mumbled a belated thank-you for his contribution in sorting them.

He nodded and waved the matter off dismissively, saying he had nothing to do while he was lying there anyhow, and I was glad to let the matter drop without having to launch into a more elaborate saying of thanks.

"I can see now why you've every detail of every important crime in the century memorised, though," he ventured, glancing keenly at me (at least as keenly as his fevered eyes could).

"The knowledge is necessary to my work," I said breezily, as I shrugged and snagged another sandwich, flopping my legs over the arm of my chair.

I sent him a sidelong glance to gauge his reaction, but to my disappointment he apparently was too tired or feeling too poorly to take the bait I was dangling for the dual purpose of distracting him and of giving me a chance to gather a reaction when I told him my occupation. _Blast. _

Instead of taking the bait, however, he merely nodded dazedly and set his spoon down to grasp the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. I hastily reached out to catch the teetering soup bowl before it fell and made a mess of the carpet.

"Doctor, are you quite all right?" I asked when after a moment he did not move from that position.

"Yes," he murmured hastily, blinking rapidly and brushing a hand over his eyes. "This blasted fever…must be up again…sorry, I can't concentrate…"

"You needn't apologise for something out of your control, Doctor," I replied sensibly, taking the soup bowl and the sandwich platter back to the table before Mrs. Hudson saw what I had done and screeched. "Perhaps you should try to sleep some more – what else can you do for a fever?"

"In this case, not much…it's not very high," he murmured, propping himself in a sitting position. "Just enough to be…unsettling."

I tossed another shovel-ful of coal on the fire as his eyes closed again and then piled the dishes on the tray, setting it outside so Mrs. Hudson would not enter and bang about, disturbing both of us. Then I took up my notes for my new monograph and spent the better part of three hours scribbling for my new treatise.

My intense concentration was rudely broken at that juncture when a small noise penetrated my thought processes. I was sufficiently jolted, my train of thought shooting out of its station without me aboard, and I rounded upon the maker of said noise, ready to censure him for disturbing my thoughts when he knew full well I abhorred being distracted in a task.

But even the bounds of my frustration do not hold a man responsible for his actions when he is unconscious, and so I of course did not voice my irritation when I saw that the Doctor was mumbling in his sleep, his brows drawn together in either pain or distress, and occasionally shifting under the blankets in his unease.

After a small cry escaped his lips as he tossed fitfully on the narrow settee I watched for a moment and fidgeted in some discomfort, not knowing whether to ignore the chap or wake him up; for obviously he was in some dreadful fever-dream and even my powers of cold detachment do not enjoy seeing needless and undeserved suffering.

Besides, if he kept on like that I should _never_ be able to concentrate.

Finally I rose silently from my chair and, after standing for a moment indecisively watching him, I reached out and placed a firm hand on his arm just as he moaned and clutched at the twisted blanket.

"Doctor?" I asked tentatively, giving him a slight shake – he was a very light sleeper and I expected him to snap awake on the instant.

Apparently the dream, if it could be called that, was far deeper than his normal state of sleeping – due to the fever, no doubt – and he merely gave a soft cry of distress when I spoke his title again, muttering something that I only barely caught part of, some reference to a battle and a couple of men's names I did not recognise.

Of course, my usage of his title was not helping matters if he were dreaming of the War.

"Watson," I said more firmly, giving his arm another shake. "Watson, wake up."

That did it – he gasped, startled, and his eyes flew open, revealing both fever and undisguised panic until the latter faded upon seeing the familiar room. His breathing increased for a split moment before he brought it back under control with an obvious supreme effort.

That left me the hitherto unforeseen problem of not damaging his pride when he realised I had been the one to awaken him…I should have thought this through a bit better before indulging in such a potentially uncomfortable action and its consequences. What had I been thinking – or _had_ I been thinking?

"I…" I cleared my throat and hastily began again, fumbling for words as I stood up and started nervously rearranging my correspondence pinned to the mantel. "I am sorry to waken you, Doctor, but…I am about to go out for a while…" (I was not planning to, but I apparently was going now) "…and I…wanted to make certain…you did not need anything else from the apothecary's?"

I was outright lying and I do not believe the man was fooled by me for a moment, more due to my obvious floundering and the fact that I was nowhere close to being dressed to go out (I had not even put on my collar all day) than his actual perception, dulled as it was – but my effort to allow him an escape with his pride intact was obviously greatly appreciated and I breathed a sigh of relief when he nodded and relaxed more calmly back against the cushions.

"No, thank you," he said, swallowing hard and rubbing his eyes. "I've still plenty of oil left from yesterday, though it's still up in my bedroom…"

"Hold on, I shall fetch it," I volunteered almost frantically, wanting desperately to get out of the room and let him pull his nerves back under control before my role changed unwillingly from awakener to comforter.

I fairly sprinted up the steps, tossed the items and the thermometer in his black bag, and then started back down the stairs. I was halfway down when I remembered, and so I turned and ran back up to grab that stupid novel of his from under the pillow of the bed and take it with me.

No sense in my having to make another trip later, after all. It was merely an effort to save my future time and energy.

And in consequence of my stupid and rash statement to the Doctor, I am now sitting in a coffee-house (it was a lucky thing the ice had begun to melt shortly after noon and life in the capital resumed its natural course shortly thereafter) and scribbling this out, to take up time so that I can then return home for supper.

Mycroft always did say my mouth occasionally exceeded my brain in size and swiftness. For once (and only once) he appears to have been right. I suppose there must be a first time for all occurrences, though I shall do my utmost to make sure there shall not be a second in this case as this coffee is simply horrendous.


	40. February 20, 1881

_February 20, 1881_

_9:45 p.m._

The world decided to thaw itself out late last night, thank heaven – I do hope that will be the last cold snap of the season for it is such a beastly (though invigorating) thing to wake up to frozen water in one's ewer pitcher.

I retired early, for with the Doctor half-conscious in the sitting room I was unable to do much that would not make a racket (I had noted his cringing when I was clinking bottles around on my chemical table, though he was decent enough not to say a word), and therefore woke rather early this morning and wide-awake after a long night's sleep spent without dreaming I was being transformed into a child's snow-man due to the dropping temperature.

Thunder rolled outside as I dressed, and by the time I had made the sitting room rain was steadily drumming on the roof overhead. Mrs. Hudson was up and about, fussing over the Doctor who apparently was awake early as well, forcing a cup of some foul-smelling brew into his hands and standing with her hands on her hips until he reluctantly drank the stuff.

I shot him a look of sympathy mingled with amusement while I began to stuff my pipe.

"Mr. Holmes, you are not going to smoke that thing right now?" My landlady startled me with her vociferous cry, causing me to drop tobacco all over my shoes.

"Actually, I am, Mrs. Hudson," I replied dryly, removing a match from my pocket.

"With the Doctor lying here sick?" the woman cried indignantly.

The fellow in question nearly choked on his tea – for I assumed that was what it was – and hastened to reassure the woman that he did not mind, and that he was feeling better this morning anyhow, etc., etc.

I did pause, remembering something to the effect that smoke could aggravate head maladies like colds and so on, but at his reassuring glance I struck the match against the mantel (earning me another disapproving glance from my outraged landlady) and lit my pipe, falling into my chair and perusing the _Times_.

My companion choked down the rest of his tea, muttered a courtesy-thank-you, and then breathed a sigh of relief when our clucking landlady went off down the stairs.

"My word, I'm glad you came in when you did – any more of that tea and I think I would have burst," he breathed.

"What was it?" I asked absently, ripping out of the paper an advertisement I desired to keep.

"Nothing I recognised, and I do have a decent knowledge of home remedies," he replied with a snort. "An earache does not mean I have a headache or sore throat or a head cold, and I am fairly certain she is under the impression I have all three, for I tasted lemon and menthol and something stronger."

"How is it?" Ah, now _that_ article looked deucedly interesting…

"The ache? Better, the swelling has gone down some and I can hear a little…and early this morning the fever went down quite a bit, so hopefully it will subside by tomorrow afternoon."

I tore the other article out of the paper and folded up the remaining shreds, throwing the remnant over my shoulder and shoving the articles into my jacket pocket. "What is tomorrow?"

"I'm supposed to be helping that chap over in Paddington – he's taking a half-day's holiday," the Doctor replied, leaning back and stretching. "And it would not do for me to be attending to patients when I am still not at top form."

"Yes, I highly doubt they would appreciate coming into the consulting room with one ailment and leaving with a new addition to their case," I replied dryly. It was a good thing to see him looking more himself than he had recently; it had been far too quiet and rather depressed around the house lately, and for once I had not been responsible for the latter.

I glanced up as Mrs. Hudson entered. "Mr. Lestrade to see you, sir," she reported.

I scowled and swore rather blatantly, causing the woman to give me a disapproving eye and the Doctor to stifle a snicker at my breach of etiquette.

"Well, honestly – we've not even had breakfast yet!" I protested, glaring at the little official, the top of whose head I could only barely see over Mrs. Hudson's hair.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but it is a matter of urgency," I heard the Inspector's dulcet tones whining from behind our landlady.

"Does it entail dragging me out in this weather? I had made plans for the day already."

"No, sir, just a talk," he called, standing on tiptoe to peek over the woman's shoulder, for Mrs. Hudson still refused to let him into the room until I waved her away.

"Very well," I growled, glancing apologetically at the Doctor.

He nodded resignedly and started to his feet, only to have his leg give out and nearly fall right into my lap had I not jumped to catch him – that would have been a nasty crack on the head had he hit the mantel like that.

"Ow…should not have tried _that_ so quickly," he muttered, massaging his injured limb, cramped from disuse for the last day and the bad weather this morning.

I frowned, completely ignoring the gaping official who was blocking the doorway. "Perhaps we should go somewhere else…" I began, but he waved me off and removed his arm hastily from my hold.

"No, no, I need to be moving about," he responded, tentatively taking a few steps toward the door. He stopped after a moment in some surprise, and then turned a fairly beaming face back to me. "The vertigo's nearly gone!"

I raised a congratulatory eyebrow, smiling at his jubilance. My companion flashed the Inspector a chipper good-morning and a ridiculously happy grin before slowly and carefully making his way out the door. Moments later I heard slow footsteps on the stairs and I counted to make sure he got all the way up without mishap before poking Lestrade, who was still staring at me as if I had grown a third arm or something equally repellant.

"Well out with it, Lestrade – I do have an itinerary today!" I said impatiently, throwing myself back into my armchair.

Thankfully, the absolute muddle the man had made of his latest case was easily straightened out with a few pointers and a bit of old-fashioned (though new-fashioned to the dull fellow) logic, and within the hour I had sent him on his merry way, enabling the Doctor and me to have our breakfast in peace.

After the meal I prepared to set off on my morning's work, namely the practicing and perfecting of various disguises in my repertoire. I hope in the future to have at least three, possibly more, safe houses around London in which I can keep my theatrical garb and equipment, along with a variety of disguises and alternate identities to pick up at my leisure; but for now I keep everything in various places about my room.

After depositing the turban and robe (which until now had remained unseen and unmissed under my deal table) in with the rest, I began to sort out the different costumes and wigs and so on that I might need to use. I then donned the attire of a rough dock worker with a woolen shirt and pea-jacket, stout shoes, and an unshaven, weather-beaten appearance. A simple disguise, but when working in rain and around the wetness of the dock areas one did not want to take a chance on wearing too much makeup for fear of some accident happening to destroy one's cover.

I had completely forgotten that the Doctor had not yet seen what I could do by way of disguise until I hastened back into the sitting-room to retrieve a pipe for my pocket and elicited a small yelp of surprise from where he was finishing his breakfast, along with a crashing of a shattering tea-cup.

"Oh, no…" he moaned, looking at the remains of the china and then taking a second look at me, his brows knitted for several seconds before they cleared. "What in heaven's name are you doing in that getup?"

I scowled, slightly miffed that it had taken him no more than ten seconds to see through the thing. "The ability to don different identities is also a part of my profession," I answered provokingly. _Go on, ask – you know you want to…_

Confound the man, he only took a moment to process this fact and then I could fairly see the gears in his head grinding shrewdly. He was _not_ going to ask me outright – he was going to toy with me first.

"Are you an actor, then?"

"No," I replied succinctly with a smirk, adjusting my muffler in the mantel mirror.

"Surely not an entertainer?"

"Good heavens, no," I snorted in amusement, saluting smartly in my getup and marching off down the stairs, leaving him chuckling after me to plan his next sortie.

After a trip to the docks and a few pubs in the vicinity (thankfully the rain had stopped momentarily about halfway through my walk), I returned to Baker Street both instructed and advised that my accent could do with a slight bit of tweaking on the second syllables of words ending in _s_. The Doctor was writing at his desk, cotton in his ear and his chin in his free hand, when I entered and blew through to my bedroom, this time donning the garb of a crippled old street-vendor with white hair, a pronounced limp, and perfectly dreadful teeth.

This time I did get a better reaction from him; he glanced up and then accidentally threw his pen across the room in his startlement.

"What the _devil_ –"

"Good, Doctor?" I asked with a horrible grin.

"_Too_ good – it is quite repellant," he retorted, glaring at the runaway pen, which had made a landing in my mortar on the chemical table.

I retrieved the item and then shuffled over to return it to him, but he scrutinized me carefully the entire way across the room and then finally shook his head when I reached him.

"No, that's wrong," he informed me with an air of authority.

"I _beg_ your pardon?" I retorted in disbelief – was he actually criticizing _my_ ability to act?

"Not the guise, but the limp – a man with a limp doesn't jerk along like that if he's accustomed to having said limp for any length of time. I should know," he added this last in a mutter.

I was completely chagrined, for I had thought it to be rather good. But pride is a moot factor in the business, for if the Doctor could see through a charade then someday a more criminally-minded man might and my life would depend on my acting ability. It was not a time to stick at self-confidence and pride; exact knowledge was necessary to my work and sometimes one had to lower one's self slightly to gain said knowledge.

"What should I change, then?" I asked curiously.

He frowned. "Do it again; let me see."

I obliged, feeling rather awkward and stupid as I did, but he put me out of my misery shortly and stopped me. "It's just too jerky," he said. "Limping isn't any less fluid a motion than walking – you're drawing too much attention to it by exaggerating it. Don't move the rest of your body so much; just enough to keep your balance, not to compensate for it."

"Oh…" I frowned. He was right, now that I thought about it; I normally forgot that he limped himself unless it was extremely pronounced or I was listening to his irregular footsteps rather than seeing him.

I tried walking again, and he watched, cocking his head to the side critically. "That's better, but still not good enough to fool any physician," he pronounced, absently rubbing his ear with a grimace.

"Better?" I asked, attempting it again, concentrating on slower and more fluid movements.

"Yes, that's better. Keep working on it," he agreed. "And are you going to be doing this all day?"

"Doing what?" I asked, practicing walking across the room and around the furniture.

"Coming in and out and doing your best to scare the life out of me?"

I snickered. "I do apologise, Doctor, but I'm afraid I have an innate flair for the dramatic."

"_No_…" he gasped in mock disbelief. I smirked at his sarcasm but squirmed a bit when he continued. "But I have no desire to be a laboratory rat for you without being informed first that horrid creatures will be invading the room. Do warn a fellow before attempting to cause cardiac arrest, there's a good chap?"

"Shure, sir, an' I'm forgettin' your nerves be a bit on edge, like," I answered impishly in my assumed accent, grinning with a deal of well-deserved pleasure at the light of admiration that filled his eyes as he laughed.

"Well your dialect is much better than your limp, at any rate," he chuckled, putting his pen back into the stand. "Mind you don't drag that foot quite so much unless you're wanting to draw attention to your invalidity."

"Hmm, yes, I shall have to work on that," I said thoughtfully, scribbling a note to myself in my memorandum-book. "By the way, what did Mrs. Hudson say to the broken tea-cup?"

I glanced up curiously as he blushed and squirmed uncomfortably. "That bad, eh?" I asked in amusement.

"Quite – let us just say I shan't be doing that again soon, I hope – and _definitely_ not when I've an earache," he sighed.

"How is it, by the way?" I called over my shoulder as I fished through the umbrella-stand for a battered walking-cane.

"Not horrible – still feels a bit swollen and it hurts if lie down for long," he reported, "but the fever is nearly gone, so here's to hoping it stays that way."

I nodded in agreement, digging the stick out of the stand (now with a long scratch from close contact with the scimitar) and waving it cheerfully at the man before I left.

I spent an hour or two hobbling about the city, mindful of the Doctor's advice on that limp, more to practice walking than to actually ply my disguise on some unsuspecting passers-by. So if I needed to adopt a disguise including a limp, I should not do so if lighting conditions were very good or my opponent very astute, as obviously it would not pass as I had previously thought.

I spent the rest of the morning in that guise, even stopping by the Yard and making a poor unsuspecting constable fill out a fabricated report for my fictional missing Yorkie, taking great amusement in pretending to be hard of hearing and giving a false name and address – no doubt whoever got that case would be in for a rather interesting afternoon's work. I hope it is Gregson, personally, for the man was rather rude to me on my way out of the station after I had made his constable late for a meeting with my tale of the poor missing doggie.

Quite an entertaining morning, actually.

Luncheon had already passed, though I noted the fact more for the time than the need for sustenance, by the time I arrived back at Baker Street. I lost on time in removing that infernally hot wig and those dreadful teeth as I bounded into the sitting room, full of energy from my dash in the light misting rain, and stopped short in embarrassment when I realised the Doctor was not alone.

"Oh…I'm sorry, Doctor, I'd no idea you had company," I stammered, edging for my bedroom.

He waved a hand in contradiction. "No, no, you're fine – we were just chatting, Holmes," he said, indicating the familiar fellow upon the settee. And unless I was entirely mistaken there was a rather helpless and clear plea for rescue in those sharp hazel eyes. I smirked. _It does serve you right for starting something you're not willing to finish, Doctor._

"How are you, Stamford?" I inquired cheerfully, ignoring the Doctor and moving into my bedroom.

"Quite well, thank you, Holmes…" I heard the man trail off incredulously as I disappeared and shut the door to change into more suitable attire.

An hour and a half later, I poked my head into the sitting room. "Is it safe to come out now?" I asked with a grin, knowing full well that the man had just left.

"Only because I'm feeling too poorly to murder you at the moment," he pouted, glaring at me grumpily from his armchair. I merely grinned wider and took up my pipe before arranging my limbs in the opposite chair.

"What did he want?"

"Other than to ascertain if we had killed one another or been evicted in the last month, you mean?"

"Naturally," I returned without batting an eye at his sarcasm.

"He heard from that chap in Paddington that I'd been ill and missed my shift yesterday – I had Mrs. Hudson send him a note early yesterday morning – so he was stopping by to see me," he shrugged.

"Did he bring you anything?" I asked interestedly. Hmm…no plants or edibles as far as I could see…he could have at least brought a box of chocolates or something…

The Doctor laughed. "Other than two hours' worth of aimless chatter, no."

"Ugh. Hardly a pleasant get-well present."

The man smiled quietly. "It is the thought that counts, Holmes."

"So they say," I replied dubiously. "But usually the more thought that goes into something, the more it counts; not a regular occurrence in most conversation."

"Touché," he agreed in amusement. "You really don't like small talk, do you?"

I snorted, blowing a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. "Certainly not. I see no point in wasting oxygen speaking of things that have no real significance to science or practicality or life as we know it. If society would do away with such so-called courtesies we should all be better off, I rather think."

I found myself fixed once more with those sharp eyes as he regarded me for a long moment. "You know…I believe you truly do mean that, every word of it," he said at last, and quite seriously.

"Of course I mean it," I retorted in annoyance. "I cannot understand most people's need to fill silence with the sound of someone's voice."

"You would be surprised at what a man's mind can fill silence with, if there is no one speaking to drown it out," he murmured unexpectedly, staring moodily into the crackling fire and rubbing at his ear with one hand.

I blinked in surprise, the strange idea only just now occurring to me, and I regarded him for a long moment in silence, gauging what I should say to counter this interesting and instructive conversation.

"I cannot profess to understand that, Doctor, but tell me – what do _you_ find so fascinating about having conversations that are in reality pointless?"

He glanced up at me with a strange sort of smile. "They are not pointless, Holmes – conversing with a friend rarely is, in fact, no matter what the content."

"You consider Stamford to be a _friend_?" I asked incredulously. _Lord forbid_…

"I actually was not referring to him," was the quiet rejoinder I received before he arose, moving back to his desk and beginning to write – an obvious gesture of finality to end the somewhat uncomfortable conversation.

I replaced my pipe and reached for my blackest clay and my slipper of shag. This…now this was definitely a three pipe problem.

And six hours later, I am still no closer to a solution. I wonder if that man knows just how often he actually confounds me?


	41. February 21, 1881

_February 21, 1881_

_7:57 p.m._

I am penning these words on the train to Winchester – after two days of nothing but police problems, the wheels of my self-imposed profession move once more. My client, a rotund little country squire named Briggs, has taken himself off for supper (thank heaven), leaving me with a solitary compartment and my thoughts about his case. As I can make no bricks without more clay, I have taken to clearing my mind of his prattling by scribbling down a short entry.

I despise the country, more for its desolation and the things that may take place there than for any hatred of Mother Nature, and I do hope this man's fears about his neighbour's ambition to kill him are not well-founded – or at least are well-enough-founded that the matter will be wrapped up shortly.

Though I am pleased to note that the sun appears to be shining as we travel, a novelty I have not seen in quite a while. London was in a deep fog when I left this afternoon, one so thick it had not dissipated at all since morning – I had woken to grey mists swirling around the windows and unable to see even the street below.

It was chilly, but not cold, for which I was grateful, but apparently the Doctor had not slept well for one reason or another for I could hear him banging about as I drank my coffee, in preparation for bolting my breakfast and heading to the Museum for some intensive studying of Australian criminal culture as well as the famous crimes committed by its penal inhabitants.

Mrs. Hudson entered and laid breakfast for two, admonishing me sternly to "make sure the Doctor ate his fair share" and so on, to which I retorted that I was his fellow-lodger, not his nanny, and nearly got my ears boxed with a serving tray for my impertinence.

About ten minutes after I had begun the meal the Doctor made an appearance, awake and fully dressed but looking as if he would rather not be.

"Morning," he mumbled, collapsing into his chair and glaring grouchily at his plate.

I absently nodded, pushing the coffee-pot in his direction (priorities, you know, and from the state of him it looked as if that would be most important consumable of the meal) and going back to my paper.

Unfortunately, I had exhausted the paper's possibilities within five minutes – it appeared not a blessed criminal in the city had taken advantage of the fog to roam about and pounce on the unsuspecting populace. Honestly – were I on the wrong side of the law not even the Queen herself would be safe in London.

I threw the paper toward the settee, where it hit the side and flopped to the carpet, and then turned back to my breakfast. A notable one, namely that this was the first time in a month that I could stand the sight and smell of fish on the table.

But judging by the way the Doctor was bolting his kippers, I had better lose no time if I wanted to have one.

"Feeling better?" I asked dryly, taking the last piece of toast before he could.

He nodded emphatically. "Just a dull ache now – I shall keep cotton in it while I'm out today as a precaution but other than that I feel fine," he replied with an air of great gratitude.

Fine as in, no more of a fever – he was favouring that leg pretty badly and I had no doubt that was anything _but_ fine.

I nodded absently, finishing off the toast in two bites before realising belatedly that I had forgotten to put marmalade on it…I wondered why it tasted so dry.

I gulped my coffee and tossed my napkin down onto the table. "I am sorry to rush off, Doctor, but I have a deal of researching to do today at the Museum."

"Oh? More obscure poisonous plants?" he asked pertly; obviously his mood was improving with each addition of Mrs. Hudson's breakfast.

I laughed and began to rummage through my desk for an unused writing tablet. "No, no, Doctor. Actually I'm to do an intensive study of Australia and its criminal inhabitants, a subject on which I am not as well-informed as I should be."

He completely missed the subtle emphasis I had placed on the word _criminal_ (lack of coffee, no doubt, and the early morning. Confound it – the man simply could or would not take the bait!) but perked up at my mention of our colony. "Australia?"

"Mmhm," I muttered absently, scrounging round for a sharp pencil.

"Have you ever been there?"

"No, unfortunately – hence the studying," I replied.

"It's a wild place," he mused, spearing the last kipper with a look of recollection.

I paused and glanced back at him. "_You_ have been there, then?"

He blinked, obviously coming out of a memory, and looked up at me. "Yes, as a lad in my young teens I spent a summer there," he replied, slicing into the fish with gusto.

Aha. First-hand and eyewitness information was always considerably more accurate and of better vividness than book knowledge.

"Doctor, are you doing anything this morning?" I demanded suddenly, whirling to face him.

He swallowed and glanced up in some surprise. "Not in particular, no – I have to be in Paddington by half-past one but until then I had no plans. Why do you ask?"

"In that case, would you allow me to pick your brain on the matter?" I inquired candidly.

He blinked slowly. "On Australia? I…suppose so, if you think I can be of any real assistance…"

"Well if not from experience, then at least you can aid me in my research. If you've nothing better to do," I added hastily, in a slightly more wheedling than demanding tone. _I have to remember to not __demand__ what I want…_

I need not have worried, for he apparently jumped at the opportunity, agreeing quite eagerly and heading for the umbrella-stand, whence he selected a sturdy but fashionable walking-stick.

I hollered down for Mrs. Hudson to fetch us a cab, and after glaring at my vociferation the good woman sent the maid to do so. Ten minutes later we were _en route_ to the British Museum, and spent the majority of the morning doing research that I had anticipated as being frightfully dull but was in reality quite interesting, and very much expedited by the aid of a second party.

"What were you doing in Australia as a boy, anyway, Doctor?" I asked curiously as we sat at a table and idly looked through a large book of maps. "Don't tell me you were drawn by the gold-lust."

He chuckled. "Weren't all the men and boys who went, besides the prisoners?"

I grinned. "But as a youngster, I mean – I hardly think a sensible man as you seem to be would simply take off from Scotland or wherever you were on such a fool's errand."

"I had an uncle living near Ballarat," he answered slowly. "As a boy I always wanted to travel, and…that summer, my…my father was occupied with other matters."

Something in his hesitating tone drew my attention, and when I looked at him his eyes were back on the map in front of him. "And your mother?" I asked curiously.

He absently traced the blue line of a curving river on the page for a moment before answering. "My mother died when I was a child – the spring before I went to stay with my uncle," he explained in a flat voice.

"Oh…" I could have kicked myself for my lack of tact. "I'm…sorry, Watson."

He shrugged. "She was ill for a long while – in a way it was rather a relief to us all. It was then I decided I wanted to become a doctor, since the ones attending her could not do much to ease her suffering."

I nodded, trying desperately to think my way out of the hole I had dug. In desperation, I turned back to the pages we were pretending to look at, and for several moments a flat, dark silence settled in and around us.

I gulped nervously, but wanted to do something by way of apology for my tactless prying; turnabout was fair play and so on. "I…I was only eight when my mother died," I offered feebly, as if that would help or change matters.

For the first time he glanced up from the book to look directly at me, his eyes softening. "I was fourteen," he said quietly.

I cleared my throat somewhat nervously, and he squirmed a bit in his chair, hastily turning his eyes back down to the page at hand. "My uncle had a ranch somewhere in here," he remarked, drawing a vague circle with his finger...for the first time I noticed the hands of a surgeon, strong and precise.

"You saw the gold-fields, then," I asked, eager to turn the conversation back to a more comfortable channel.

"Oh, yes. As I said, a wild place."

"What do you remember most about it?" I asked curiously as we shut the book and I replaced it on the shelf (it was too high for him to reach).

He unaccountably began to laugh.

"What?" I asked in amusement.

"Probably my most vivid memory of the place was of getting kicked by a young kangaroo," he said with a grin.

"You what?!"

"I was rather lucky it was not full-grown," he informed me, the grin widening. "And no, I shall not tell you _where _it kicked me."

I laughed and pocketed my notebook. "Well, I believe I've learnt enough for one morning, Doctor. Are you hungry?"

"Ravenous."

"Yes, you must be feeling better," I said in amusement. "Mrs. Hudson would be so proud."

He blushed at my teasing, though not as deeply as usual (ha, he was learning that probably that would be a regular occurrence in my company), and I merely laughed and led the way through the bookshelves and so out into the street.

All over London clock bells were striking noon, and the noise surprised me for I had no idea it was quite that late.

We stopped in the Strand for a sandwich (or two, in the Doctor's case) and tea, and then I let him take our cab to Paddington (it looked like rain) and set off myself to stop by Scotland Yard and see how Lestrade was getting on with that case he had made such a mess of yesterday morning.

To my chagrin, I was beset upon by Tobias Gregson instead, for Lestrade was out in Westminster on an entirely different case, and was asked by the fellow if I could shed any light on a most peculiar incident that had happened the day previously – evidently some old man with white hair and a limp had given them a fictitious address of his home where a dog had been stolen from. The address took Gregson nearly all the way out to Hampstead and merely ended up being the offices of a sausage-packing company.

I nearly choked on the hilarity of my unintentional irony, but I carefully schooled my face into placid thoughtfulness before pronouncing sagaciously that the fellow was playing a prank and that I should not worry overmuch about the little doggie were I Gregson.

I then made my escape before I burst something from suppressed laughter.

My mood only increased in its brightness when I found a client waiting for me upon my return to Baker Street. A pretty little problem, with some unique features, and I lost no time in informing Mrs. Hudson that I would be away for an undeterminable period of time; scribbling the Doctor a note and affixing it to his armchair with a bodkin; and then snatching a carpetbag, a toothbrush, and a clean collar, and following my client out the door on the instant.

Hence the train to Winchester, and then the drive to the country residence. And as I can hear rather heavy footsteps approaching the compartment, I take it that Briggs has completed his second dessert and is returning, so I shall here end this entry.


	42. February 23, 1881

_February 23, 1881_

_10:36 p.m._

I must say I am glad to be home – after such an auspicious beginning to that case it rapidly spiraled downward into a boringly mundane routine. The instruction gained from the experience was hardly worth the time and effort it took to reach a successful conclusion, but _ars artis gratia_ and so on.

Be that as it may, the slight diversion was still better than lounging about the house in a black fit of boredom, as I no doubt will be battling this time tomorrow. I spent the last hour and seventeen minutes scraping aimlessly on my violin until the Doctor got up to find cotton wool. As he has had the earache, I would think nothing of the matter…were it not for the fact that he put the cotton in _both_ ears and looked rather in pain as he did so.

I can take a hint (specially one so clear as that), and stopped my aimless chords shortly thereafter, albeit grudgingly.

I did not bother to wire Mrs. Hudson that I would be returning today, since I would be arriving in the middle of the afternoon, and so surprised the woman when I stumbled in out of the rain, splashing a goodly portion of wet London all over the hall and looking more like a drowned rat than a man well-satisfied with his recent prowess in detection.

After the initial wailing had died down she shooed (yes, I admit, I was indeed _shooed_, for there can be no other term to describe the motion) me up the stairs and went to fetch me a pot of tea, which I partook of gratefully once I had changed my wet and rather disgusting attire from the grimy journey.

The Doctor arrived not long after I did, and in a scarcely less desirable state, judging from the sudden commotion I heard from downstairs after the door had closed. Two minutes and fifteen seconds later he stumbled into the sitting room, looking rather flustered, and flanked closely by our fussing landlady.

"Doctor, you're going to catch your death," the woman wailed, trying to take his soaked jacket and being waved off in embarrassment as he struggled his good arm out of the sleeve.

"Mrs. Hudson, I assure you I am perfectly – Holmes! When did you get back?" he asked in surprise, turning to me with a flashing smile and completely ignoring our venerable landlady as she finally succeeded in yanking the sopping coat off his back.

"Just an hour or so ago," I replied in amusement, watching as he waved off Mrs. Hudson's administrations and earned no more than a deadly look from the lady before she handed him a cup of tea and vanished with his coat and the empty teapot. "Where have you been in this vile weather?"

"Working," he said cheerfully, limping over to his chair and settling in it with less of a grimace than usual. "It is a good feeling to have something to do of a day besides sit around and write, you know."

I nodded with a smirk well-hidden behind my teacup, for I knew he was blatantly offering me an opening to divulge information about my own work. I of course did not volunteer any, and his brows moved slightly closer together as he continued to sip his tea (and no doubt to formulate a better or at the least more subtle opening gambit).

I set my cup down and moved to take up my pipe, forgetting that I had nearly used all my tobacco the day before I left and only realising the fact in some dismay after I had the thing in my hands. Confound it – and I was not about to go out in the rain to get more from Bradley's; I should just have to do without it until tomorrow…

"Oh, I noticed you were nearly out of that horrendous stuff you smoke," the Doctor remarked from over his tea, "so I had the shop send up a pound when I stopped by yesterday. Should be on your desk somewhere, I think."

I blinked in some surprise, both at his perception and at his taking the time to do such a thing, and only after I had pounced excitedly on the tin did I remember that the appropriate response in such situations was the proffering of gratitude…I should write myself a monograph on proper responses in awkward situations, for I could make use of it in having to remember all these things…

"Erm…thank you, Doctor," I mumbled from around my pipe as I held a match to it.

He was already immersed in the evening paper and only glanced up absently, thankfully too absorbed to notice my floundering. "Hmm? Oh, you're quite welcome. So how was the country?"

"Considerably dryer than the city," I replied, gratefully puffing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "I actually saw the sun for longer than five minutes at a space."

He chuckled, turning over to the sporting section. "It's been pouring buckets here the whole time you've been gone – you wouldn't believe the amount of colds and chills people are coming down with. Oh, your mail is on your desk, too, by the way – a few letters and a telegram."

I riffled through the stack – nothing at all interesting. The telegram was from Lestrade saying that he had wrapped up the case "without help from amateurs, thank you very much" and the epistles merely courtesy thank-yous from clients…along with one pointed warning from my brother to leave the footman at the door of the Diogenes Club alone, and if I wanted to join then to pay the fee and join but stop trying to get in for free on his name. Bah.

My eye fell upon the last letter, however, and I pounced on it after seeing the crest. I slit it with my pipe stem and gleefully extracted my large reward cheque for that diamond recovery. Hah.

They say that money cannot buy happiness, but it most certainly can help.

I was now in the mood for celebration, but it was too late for a concert…and besides after such a grueling journey with a very talkative companion in my compartment who seemed to think I wanted to know every blasted detail of his execrable existence (I could tell most of them simply from looking at him and engaging in rather elementary deduction) I was rather thirsting for some at least quasi-intelligent conversation.

In these cases sometimes I resorted to talking to myself, arguing both sides of some problem picked at random from the brain-attic of my mind; but in this case why bother and have people cast me strange looks (which they always did) for my actions, when by his own admission the man sitting opposite from me disliked being alone anyway and no doubt would jump at the chance to get out somewhere even with me.

"I say, Doctor," I said suddenly, causing him to jump, startled, with a sudden rustling of scattered pages (for I had been silent for several minutes).

"Don't _do_ that," he scowled, leaning down to pick up the various spreads of newsprint.

"Sorry. Look, a client of mine has just given me a rather large tip on top of his fee," I prevaricated slightly, "and I feel an urge to celebrate the occasion. What do you say to dinner out?"

He dropped the newspaper and looked at me incredulously. "You want me to go with you?"

_Why was that so surprising?_ I thought, a trifle miffed. If Stamford could offer, so could I, and with considerably better grace. "Yes, of course."

"Well…I would be happy to go, but…I'm afraid…" he trailed off for a moment, his face flushing in embarrassment, and I did not miss the glance he cast at his cheque-book lying upon his desk. "It is the end of the month, and I don't think I can –"

I was about to cut him off, for I had intended to pay for the dinner with my reward money, but somehow I got the very strong feeling that he would be highly insulted by the fact. Hmm.

"Just consider it a loan until your pension cheque comes in, Doctor," I at last said sensibly, hurling his still-damp hat at him.

He caught it before it went into the fire (thank goodness) with a look of slight annoyance that was smothered under a tolerant sigh. His brows still remained knitted, however, and he spoke hesitantly. "I still hate to accept your charity, even so…"

"Doctor," I replied dryly. "I may not be overly knowledgeable about social expectations, but I do know that it is considered highly rude to decline an invitation to dinner unless one is physically or mentally indisposed – or if the person in question is highly repellant. Are any of those true?"

"I'm not quite certain about the last…" He flashed me a smirk as he stood to his feet and passed by me to retrieve his discarded walking-stick.

"Nor am I about the second, but that is not stopping me," I retorted over my shoulder on my way out the door.

I heard a laugh and a muttered "_Touché_" just before I shouted down the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson! Would you be so kind as to call us a cab – the Doctor and I are dining out this evening!"

The woman came bustling out from her rooms in back, glaring up at me. "Mr. Holmes! It is not considered proper for a gentleman to shout at a lady!" she returned with equal vehemence, sending me a black look before opening the door to summon our transportation.

"Since when does she consider you to be a gentleman?" the Doctor wondered innocently from behind me.

"Very funny," I muttered sourly. "Just because you are her favourite –"

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are," I retorted.

"You know for a man who professes not to enjoy feeling many emotions, you can be ridiculously jealous."

I felt my ears burn, but thankfully the fellow could not see it due to the fact that I had left him behind on the stairs as I descended, he following considerably more slowly. Mrs. Hudson re-entered the house just as he reached the bottom and promptly fell to bundling the poor fellow up against the fog and chill, admonishing him sternly to keep his muffler on and for me to make sure I did not keep us both out traipsing round the city all night, etc., etc. As if I had any intention of doing so – I believed two hours of social activity more than covered my ration for the week.

"And mind you don't walk too far on that leg, Doctor," the woman called after us as we made our hasty retreat into the waiting cab. "You've already been out all day in this horrid weather, and –"

I banged frantically on the roof of the cab and it started off, much to our joint relief.

"No, you are _not_ her favourite," I snorted.

He scowled petulantly at me. "That might have something to do with the fact that _I _am nice to her."

"As in?"

"_Not_ bellowing for the poor woman at the top of my voice, _not_ burning a hole in the carpet with my sulphuric acid, _not_ informing her two nights before last that the roast was overdone –"

"Well it _was_!" I defended myself with a frown.

"That doesn't mean it was very nice to _tell_ her so!"

"Were it my art that was in question, I should want to know what I could do to improve the matter," I replied in absolute puzzlement – who would not want to know major flaws in one's accomplishments? It was only logical to dissect and analyze flaws and advantages to be used in reaching a desired conclusion.

"You most definitely would _not_, not if there were nothing you could do to fix it at that point," he retorted. "Would you appreciate it if I told you _after_ you'd entirely finished one of those violin solos that your timing was off in the sixth measure?"

"Not especially, no…" I pondered thoughtfully.

"Being difficult to please is common in the world – kindness and good-naturedness are rare," he said matter-of-factly. "The world doesn't need any more querulous people."

"I do hope you are going to discuss something other than the depravity of human nature, especially _my_ human nature, over supper, Doctor."

"You're more than welcome to change the subject."

"Do you like French food?"

He blinked only once at the abrupt topic switch before answering cautiously. "I've not had much of it, so I am not sure I can safely say I _like_ it…but I am perfectly willing to try it."

"Excellent." I settled back contentedly in the vehicle, watching the fog roll by the windows.

"Why French?" he broke curiously into my thoughts a few moments later.

I gave him a sidelong look and repressed a smirk. "Ancestry," I said succinctly.

"Oh." Long pause. "You're part French, then."

"That is _generally _the most common meaning of the word _ancestry_, yes."

"You needn't act so superiour. Your name is obviously not French," he observed with a curious look.

"Obviously," I agreed, eyeing him ingenuously from my peripheral vision.

He breathed in a long (and probably frustrated) breath through his nose before countering me with "I've never met a man so positively taciturn. What does a chap have to do to pry information out of you?"

"Catch me in a good mood and ask a direct and pointed question, in most cases," I replied cheerily. "Or else best me in a verbal combat; spoils of victory and so on," I added slyly, glancing sideways at him.

"Indeed." He glanced over at me in the same wary manner, our eyes meeting for a single awkward moment before we hastily turned to gaze out of our respective windows at nothing in particular (who could see through that rain and fog, anyway?).

Interesting. If he continues to be so much of a gentlemen that his courtesy overrides and controls his obvious curiousity, then eventually I shall have to volunteer the information before he drives me absolutely _out of my mind_ with this verbal waltz we continue to perform.

And the thing that utterly fascinates me is that he obviously is one of the sharpest men I have yet to meet (of those average mortals outside the mental realm of my brother and me) – and yet such a man does not _use_ his intelligence to seek his own advantages due to that almost old-fashioned and entirely ridiculous chivalrous streak. Were he as ruthless as I, he would be infinitely dangerous.

Which it is probably a fortunate thing for my safety and sanity that he is _not_.

Dinner was an amicable experience; we said very little after I recommended certain items on the menu. A very pleasant change, actually, to eat with someone who does not feel the need to voice every thought that flits in and out of his head (as my client had the unfortunate habit of doing for the last _forty-eight hours_), and I was in a rather mellow temper by the time we had returned to Baker Street.

The Doctor was exhausted by that point and relapsed into a semi-comatose state in front of the fire after changing into warm dry clothing, while I began cheerfully to go through the business that had accumulated in my absence – until a note from my brother, hitherto unnoticed in the evening post, served to ruin my mood (hence the hour-long violin-scraping and the not very subtle hint that I was teetering dangerously between causing extreme annoyance and instilling murderous thoughts of vengeance into my fellow-lodger's devious brain).

Apparently brother mine is under the mistaken impression that I have nothing better to do with my time than to obey his every whim, for the message was curt and peremptory as usual, demanding I come to see him (I? Oh, the honour of your audience, milord!) tonight after he returned from his club. Fortunately, I had been out when the note arrived and so was spared that unmentionable horror until tomorrow morning; if I do not show up then I have no doubt he shall write me down a target for vengeance.

And I swear by my own Sherlock Holmes Blood-Test, if his reason for summoning me is another enforced theatre date I shall tear him limb from flabby limb.

* * *

_And a Happy 75th Birthday to the man who has been Sherlock Holmes to me since my discovery of the Granada series back in January - Jeremy Brett. _:)


	43. February 24, 1881

_February 24, 1881_

_8:02 p.m._

In light of the events of this disturbing morning, I am inclined to think the Almighty was unduly harsh in His Divine judgment of Cain's sin – personally I rather have the feeling that the fratricide was entirely justifiable, and the poor chap has my sympathies for being so banished from civilization due to being driven to an extreme measure to keep his sanity.

But as matters theological are not and never have been anything near to my _forte_, I shall hereby digress to lay the events down in their logical sequence.

The Doctor had fallen asleep in his chair last night while I finished bringing up to the present the work I had fallen behind in during my absence; but I woke him before I turned in myself, knowing if he remained in that armchair he would have a horrid crick in his neck this morning. Apparently, however, he did not feel up to making the stairs after the long day and instead merely moved the three feet to the couch before promptly dropping off to sleep again, for I unintentionally woke him this morning when I stumbled into the room for my pipe and accidentally knocked the fireplace-poker from its stand with a loud clang.

I think he startled me as much as I him when he yelped unexpectedly from directly behind me; I jumped nearly into the fire, not realising he had been sleeping there.

"Oh…my apologies, Doctor," I stammered as best I could in my surprise as he rubbed his eyes, the blanket he had pulled from the back of the settee sliding off him to the floor.

"'S fine…" he trailed off to yawn sleepily. "Wha' time is it?"

"Half-past eight," I replied warily, knowing he hated to be awoken that early.

He was eyeing me with sleepy curiousity (as best he could while blinking owlishly like that) and I finally quirked a questioning eyebrow. "Something wrong, Doctor?"

"Your slipper is afire," he observed with interest, pointing to my footwear.

I felt the heat just as he indicated the fact and hastily stamped out the spark that had evidently lit onto the toe of my slipper, when I had been startled by his jumping half off the couch when awakened.

I heard a stifled snicker at my impromptu dancing and merely glowered darkly at him before I stalked regally back into my bedroom with my pipe and slammed the door. A wonderful way to start the morning, and it only grew worse as the day progressed.

Well, to be entirely and altogether accurate, breakfast was not at all an unpleasant experience. It was the events that occurred when once I left the sanctuary of my house that combined to make a thoroughly unpleasant morning and early afternoon.

No sooner had I reached Pall Mall (I had walked, for it was not raining at the moment, a noteworthy fact in itself) than a four-wheeler came racing by out of the fog before I was aware of its presence, quite effectively drenching me from head to foot with wet murk from the numerous ponds and lakes now dotting our London streets from the recent downpour.

I was not amused.

Mycroft was even less so when I appeared five minutes later to drip muddy water all over his immaculate floors. His irritation _did_ serve to put me in a slightly better mood (I made sure to splatter the walls on my way through the hall), but unfortunately that glee only lasted until I sneezed while shivering in front of his fire.

"Perhaps it is a good thing you have a resident physician in the house," he observed sagely, offering me a spotless white towel.

Privately I agreed with him, but never of course would I ever give him any visible indication that I did. "What did you want last night, Mycroft?" I snarled instead, rubbing my wet head with the towel.

"Why did you not appear in my rooms when I so called?"

"I was out to dinner with the Doctor," I retorted defensively. "I did not even get the message until well after you would have been punctually asleep at your ridiculously early hours, brother."

He had completely missed the latter part of my statement and was still gawping wide-watery-eyed at me over the first half. "You were _what_?"

"At _dinner_, Mycroft. Surely _you_ of all people know what that means?" I asked pointedly, indicating his mammoth physique.

"No, no, no, Sherlock. You mean to tell me you _voluntarily_ went _out_ for a meal with someone?"

"What of it?" I demanded, squirming a little in my soggy seat – strange, I was still shivering despite the fact that it was rather warm in here.

"How much were you forced to bribe him?" was the next logical question.

"Nothing," I said proudly. "He even refused to let me pay for the supper."

"You _offered_ to do so?" he gasped, sinking heavily (very heavily) into the nearest chair (I felt sympathy for it as it groaned painfully).

"Brother mine, you may find this hard to believe, but I do have a rather successful practice at the moment," I said loftily. "_Including_ a recent large reward from a wealthy client."

"Yes, I had been able to deduce that fact simply because you have not shown up here to beg, borrow, or steal from me in the last month," he replied dryly, tapping his chin with a fat sausagey finger and scrutinizing me carefully.

"Are you going to continue to stare at me as if I were an exhibit at the Zoo, are or are you going to tell me why I am sitting here in this mausoleum drenched to the skin instead of dissolving the chemical compound I have awaiting me when I get back to my warm home?" I demanded in some irritation, for the slothful fellow was so annoyingly placid and slow in getting to his point that it had not ceased to frustrate me ever since I was old enough to talk.

"I merely wished to reinforce that note I sent you the other day – that you so pointedly ignored, by the way – about accosting the footman at the Diogenes," he said in some annoyance.

"I was out of town on a case – did not get that until last night either," I protested, bristling at his infernal elder-brotherly admonishing.

"For pity's sake, just pay the fee to gain entry to the club, Sherlock – heaven knows you will fit in well enough," my brother rumbled in annoyance. "But stop trying to use my name to infiltrate it for free – I can have you struck from the list of prospective members, you know."

"Then do it," I retorted, completely unconcerned. "I've not as much a need for the retreat as I did when living in that hovel in Montague."

Obviously the wrong thing to say, for he raised a ponderous eyebrow. "I would think you would have _more_ of a need for solitude than before, since you are now sharing rooms with someone on a constant basis," was his sagacious observation.

Why did I suddenly feel an almost uncontrollable urge to squirm? Worse still, why did I have the feeling that he was correct, I _should_ want to get out more – and yet to my knowledge I did _not_ have that feeling?

I despise not knowing the answers to questions, specially ones put to me by the only man alive who is more intelligent (albeit only slightly and only because he happened to be born first and thereby has seven years' more experience) than I.

"It is none of your business, Mycroft," was the only (and rather juvenile, I am forced to admit) thing I could think of to say at the moment. I suddenly sneezed again and effectively cut off any addendums I might add to that sentiment.

"Cover your nose, Sherlock. And no, it is not," he agreed most cheerfully. "But since when have I ever allowed that to prevent me from taking an interest in your affairs?"

"Since never," I snapped sourly, covering another sneeze with his sofa pillow before returning it to its position – purposely leaving it askew to annoy him when he saw the fact later.

"There you have it. At any rate, either join the Diogenes or do not join, but desist from abusing my name in your efforts to gain entry for nothing, is that clear?"

"Perfectly," I muttered. "Anything else?"

"No. Good morning, brother. And do drop me a line occasionally to let me know you have not got yourself killed on one of those ridiculous police-problems of yours, eh?"

I scowled and tossed the damp towel at his immaculately dusted hall-table on my way out, eliciting a cry of dismay and a rumble of displeasure that made my morning a bit brighter.

Said morning only darkened again when I was once more splashed from head to foot – this time by a bunch of street urchins in Oxford Street who nearly ran me down and tried to lift my pocket-book. By the time I reached the house I was shivering and feeling the beginnings of a cold starting to congest thickly in my head, making it feel as if I had stuffed my ears and nose and throat with cotton.

I cannot profess to being entirely upset when I was pounced upon by an obviously bored and (thankfully) not-working-today doctor upon my entering (or rather sloshing into) the sitting room.

"You don't look good, Holmes," was his first stunning observation as he limped over to help me out of my coat (Mrs. Hudson had gone out).

My response was smothered with another infernal sneeze, and I shivered convulsively as I found myself propelled toward the fire. I sank into my chair, the Doctor tossed me a well-used blanket, and then he turned toward the door.

"I'll get you some hot lemon water with a bit of honey in it, all right?" he said over his shoulder.

I nearly asphyxiated on another sneeze as I tried to get him to stop – he did not need to be climbing those steps – but by the time I had regained my breath from choking he had already disappeared below stairs. I scowled, shivering for a moment, before I made a dash for my bedroom to change into dry clothing. Feeling a bit better after that was carried out, I returned and huddled up in my chair, unable to move much without seeming rather thick and sluggish.

I heard the door open behind me a few minutes later and then footsteps drew near my chair with an accompanying clinking. I opened my mouth to ask a question and suddenly found it filled with the metallic and glassy taste of a thermometer. _Not again…_

I glared at my self-imposed physician, completely not in the mood to be practised upon, but he complacently ignored my irritation. "Have to take your temperature before you start drinking something hot, else it will not be accurate," he explained cheerfully, pouring out a disgusting-looking concoction and handing it to me.

I cupped my hands round the hot glass until the blasted instrument was removed from under my tongue, and then I warily tasted the brew. Actually…it was not that foul, for something purporting to sport medicinal qualities.

And this time, I remembered to thank him before he realised I had forgotten. Hah, I knew I could do it if I concentrated.

My fellow-lodger studied the thermometer for a moment before putting it away with a relieved look. "You've no fever; probably just caught cold. What on earth happened? You looked as if you had jumped in the Thames when you returned just now."

"A cab splashed me earlier in the morning, and then a bunch of children continued the favour on my way back home," I muttered grouchily. I cautiously began to sip my hot drink, which actually seemed to ease the ache in my throat somewhat.

He frowned sympathetically. "I suppose it would do no good for me to suggest you go to bed with a hot-water bottle."

"None whatsoever."

"Thought as much. Then stay by the fire, at least until you start feeling a bit less water-logged, eh?"

I nodded, for once in complete agreement with that diagnosis, and subsided into a drowsy sort of coma after very many minutes had passed.

Apparently at some point after that I fell asleep, for I awoke to a sense of snug warmth that had banished the worst of the wet chill from my bones. Part of this seemed to be due to the fire that had become an inferno whilst I slept, and part because I was nearly suffocating in the thick coverlet from my bed, which had magically appeared to envelop me while I slept.

The Doctor, reclining in his chair across from me, glanced up from his book as I stirred sleepily.

"How are you feeling?"

I blinked slowly, taking stock of my head and its disgusting contents. "Stuffy. But not as cold."

"Good. I mean the latter, anyway," he added with a small smirk. "You've been coughing a bit in your sleep. I have some syrup if you want it, but I shall warn you it is considerably less palatable than that lemon water was."

I was going to stretch but found that I was having trouble locating my arms in the blankets. Finally I wriggled free and yawned, stretching out my legs toward the fire. "What time is it?"

"Nearly supper-time. You've slept a good part of the afternoon away."

I glanced at the clock – well after seven. "Did I have any messages whilst I was out today?"

"No. A caller did come for you about an hour ago, but I told her to come back after supper – do _not _look at me like that; you needed that sleep," he admonished sternly when I began to scowl.

"'Her'? I am surprised you did not invite her _to_ supper," I said slyly, making a Herculean effort to tamp down on my irritation…for I did feel a bit better after that nap, I was forced to (grudgingly) admit.

He blushed, or else the heat from the fire had suddenly grown more intense.

"Mrs. Hudson came back and said she would make you some soup for dinner," he said abruptly.

"Not the most seamless change of subject, Doctor."

"No," he agreed with a grin. "So anyway…"

I laughed and attempted to disentangle myself from my woolen prison, deciding against my pipe for now in hopes that the cough would clear up on its own without aggravation from smoke – until after supper at least. The Doctor, seeing that I intended to stay awake, set his book aside and retreated to his desk to embark on some of his infernal scribbling. I returned to my current and comfortable position in front of the fire, writing an entirely different sort of memoir.

And the prospect of having a client after anticipating a day of complete stagnation has turned what looked to be a bleak afternoon into a rather pleasing day's work. Ah, Mrs. Hudson is arriving with supper, so more tomorrow.


	44. February 25, 1881

_February 25, 1881_

_10:13 p.m._

Unfortunately for my poor underworked brain, this last case was of a petty and absurdly simple nature, though my young and gullible client is under the mistaken impression that I did something grand in proving that the man who left her at the church was unworthy of her affections and was only after her inheritance (which was obviously more sizable than her intelligence in choosing a suitor). Fortunately for the woman's emotions, apparently the marriage was rather a necessary and thereby not entirely welcome one and she harboured no great abiding love for the man; else the case would not have ended so amicably for both of us.

But it was an absurdly commonplace and trite affair – a very nearly identical case occurred in Chicago in '76, and several less identical but just as parallel cases even here in our own isle many times in the past years. The deception is an old one, and a rather over-used one; but still each year susceptible women are so taken in by smooth-talking men.

I am rather glad to know I shall never allow myself to sink to such a silly state that my brain would take a seemingly permanent holiday and allow my emotions to take over and dictate my actions in such a foppish manner.

I resolved the simple matter early this afternoon and returned to Baker Street before tea-time. The rainstorm had finally decided the populace had drowned enough for one week and had taken itself off to the country, leaving the sunshine to begin the long drying-out process in the capital. I was still sneezing occasionally, but other than a slight congestion in my nose and the back of my throat, I appeared to have well shaken off the effects of my drenching yesterday.

Due no doubt to the good weather, the Doctor was rather chipper (annoyingly so) when he returned from his morning work volunteering at one of those hospitals – Hammersmith, I believe was the one he had decided upon – to join me for tea.

So positively cheerful was he that he blithely chattered on and on about seeing a crocus in the park on the way home, etc., etc., that my concentration was completely disrupted and my chemical experiment (trying to dissolve the compound on my chemical table into its basic elements – a routine experiment but even those elementary ones require a deal of concentration) ended on a sour note.

_Literally_, as a dreadfully pungent odour suddenly came roiling out of the test-tube I dropped in my exasperation, filling the sitting room with a noxious cloud of greyish smoke.

I coughed my way to the window and opened it, followed closely by my now not-so-cheerful companion.

"Is that the reaction you were trying to produce?" he gasped, waving the smoke out of the window with a nearby newspaper.

"No, but it is a bit hard to concentrate upon analysis and litmus tests when one's ears are being pounded full with news of springtime and crocuses," I growled irritably, going to clean up the mess I had made.

"Oh…" I winced when I heard all cheerfulness leave his voice subdued and rather embarrassed. "I'm…dreadfully sorry, Holmes. I'll go upstairs and let you try to repair the damage –"

"No, Doctor," I sighed, wishing to heaven that I did not feel guilty after snapping at him (why did it bother me? I never cared a whit if I were short with anyone else); having some sort of conscience occasionally awoken in my icy soul made me so deucedly uncomfortable. "It is not entirely your fault – I should be able to concentrate despite distractions, and you've as much a right to talk as I have to remain silent."

He blinked thoughtfully. "I suppose that's a logical way of looking at it, but that still doesn't make it very considerate of me to blather on like that if you are working," said he in deep contemplation.

I glanced up incredulously at him for a moment, disbelieving that it was actually possible for a man to be so blasted _considerate_ in an intelligent head. Perhaps he is not as smart a fellow as I have before given him credit for being, because surely a sensible person would have a greater care for his own personal gains and ends than this man does.

These considerations flitted away from my mind upon the arrival of our landlady with tea, however (thankfully after the deleterious cloud had dissipated for the most part).

"I've your suits ready for you to try on, Doctor, after you've had your tea," the woman said briskly, bustling about to set out the tea things on the table with an assortment of clinks and thunks.

I cocked a curious eyebrow at my companion, and he ducked his head hastily, blushing and trying desperately to hide the fact from my prying eyes.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he mumbled, reaching hastily for the teapot to avoid my knowing smirk.

"I'll just put them in your room, Doctor, and you just let me know if they need let out a little more, sir," the woman answered cheerily, patting his right shoulder briefly on her way out the door.

His ears went from scarlet to crimson, and I chuckled, shoving the plate of crumpets in his direction.

"You've no need to be ashamed of the fact that you are slowly regaining your health and previous weight, Doctor," I said in great amusement.

"Yes, but…without proper exercise, it's not healthy," he protested in embarrassment, poking moodily at his food.

"Honestly, Doctor, I am fairly certain you could gain a _stone_ or two and still look healthy," I snorted dryly, stirring milk into my teacup.

"And you couldn't?" he shot back, raising an eyebrow at me over the rim of his cup.

I grinned. "_Touché_. But fortunately for me, our landlady is not anywhere close to being that concerned about my state of health, Doctor. That is part and parcel of your privilege of being the chosen one."

"Oh, stop it," he muttered, squirming in his seat and hastily helping himself to another crumpet as I watched in high amusement.

For a few moments we continued in silence, sipping our tea and woolgathering, and then I smirked and leaned forward, indicating the remaining crumpets. "Watson, you planning to finish all of those, or may I have just one? Or at least half of one?"

I very nearly received all four of them, aimed directly at my _head_; I firmly believe the only reason I escaped that fate was the return of Mrs. Hudson with another plate of sugary treats – obviously the woman was all too thrilled about the Doctor's gaining a bit of weight (though really one could hardly tell except that he looked a bit less gaunt) and was going to press the issue as far as he would allow.

After tea I finished cleaning up the broken glass and the powders I had spilt, and killed two birds with one stone by scribbling down an inventory of the chemicals and equipment I needed more of while I did so. The Doctor had disappeared for his fittings, and by the time he returned to the room I had reverted the deal table and its contents back to some semblance of order (for possessions of mine, anyway).

He endeavoured to apologise once again for causing my experiment to go awry, but I waved him off before we both grew too uncomfortable with the situation.

"Would you like me to pick up for you whatever it was I ruined? I'm going out for a walk – the weather is too nice to stay inside," he offered, retrieving his walking-stick from the stand (casting a dubious look at the scimitar).

"No, I usually like to pick out my chemicals and so on myself," I said absently, shoving my microscope a safe distance away from the edge of the table…perhaps I should buy a new one with part of my reward money. I had been eyeing one in the window of that shop in Oxford Street…

"Just as you like," he said with a shrug, fidgeting for a moment with his stick by the door. I glanced up quizzically as he merely stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other (and not because his leg was bothering him), and finally he tugged on his collar a bit nervously and looked over at me.

"Erm…would you care to come along with me?" he asked hesitantly.

I blinked slowly, taken aback at the request (for it was obviously a request for my company, not the giving of permission to accompany him as he well knew I never would ask to). I really had no desire to tramp about the city aimlessly, sunshine or no sunshine; but nor did I particularly want to spend the afternoon moping about the sitting room all alone and wishing for a case and having nothing whatsoever to occupy my mind.

Why he desired my company was a problem far beyond my ken, and one I still have not been able to come to a conclusion regarding: in this instance he probably was under the impression that his destroying my experiment required some sort of reparation and this was his way of trying to make amends. Either that, or the medical instincts that have been awakened from their hibernation due to recent practicing was making a nuisance of itself regarding the medicinal qualities of fresh air (I still had a slightly stuffy head) and he did not want me to become sicker and force him to care for a patient in the house.

Yes, no doubt that was it.

This thought process only occupied a second or two, but my hesitation obviously was perceptible and he hastily turned away, but not before I had seen something I could only assume was disappointment in his eyes – disappointment? What in blazes would he be disappointed over in my refusal to come?

"Why not?" I suddenly said cheerily, scrambling to my feet and pocketing my list. "You don't mind if we stop at the chemist's, do you?"

He smiled. "Not at all. I need to stock up on a few things as well."

"Capital. One moment, then – I cannot remember where I threw my hat when I came in this afternoon."

"Is that it?" he asked pertly, pointing with his stick to my errant head-gear, which was resting atop one of the liquor decanters on the sideboard.

"Ah, yes." I snatched up the item, leaving the decanter shivering on the tray but thankfully still standing upright, and we made our exit from the house and began walking down Baker Street.

"Is your cold still bothering you? I heard you sneezing some last night," he asked after a moment of sunny silence.

"Ehh, just a trifle congested, that is all." I shrugged the matter off carelessly. "Nothing to be overly concerned about."

"Ooh, look!" he cried suddenly, indicating with his stick; and apparently this new attraction faded out his concern for my health (thank heaven; I was in no mood to be fussed over).

"What?"

"It's a robin!" he said with glee, pointing out the red-breasted bird chirping on the windowsill of the house we passed.

"Erm…yes, it is," I agreed with my usual astuteness.

"Spring is coming," he observed happily.

"Erm…yes, it is…" I realised belatedly I had already said that and hastily fumbled for an addendum so as to not look like a complete conversational idiot. "I shall be glad to see the cold leave for good." _Oh, brilliant. The second sharpest mind in London, and that is the extent of your stunning conversation_.

He nodded emphatically, turning his head to look at another blasted bird that twittered annoyingly at us as we walked past its perch.

"This is the first real spring I've seen in three years," he remarked softly, breaking into my thoughts a moment later.

I was sufficiently jolted from my musings (about what concert tickets I was going to purchase with some of my reward money) by the strange words, and I looked sideways at him. Yes, of course; that explained this unusually vivid love of life he appeared to hold for this dreary city of ours.

"Did they not have much seasonal change in the East?" I asked curiously.

He shook his head pensively. "Well, yes, there was a difference in temperature, and in plant life, but not a drastic one. And we were…a bit too busy to notice the changes, what there were of them," he said quietly. "I've not seen an English spring in forever, seems like – it's beautiful."

"Is it?" I asked incredulously, for that particular adjective had certainly never suggested itself to my mind before in my contemplation of the grey buildings and rainy skies.

"When you've seen nothing but sand and blood and death for two and a half years, yes," he replied decisively, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the sun on our faces.

Perhaps when next I traveled out of town on a case I should allow the man to tag along – no doubt he would be positively thrilled to see the greening countryside this time of year…

What in the name of all things logical was I _thinking_? Where had _that_ come from in my brain, or obviously my _lack_ of one at the moment?

It is said that springtime brings and breeds madness in humans, and at that moment I was rather inclined to believe it – where that ridiculous thought had come from I had no idea, but I certainly do not want to make a habit of thinking such alien notions.

In an effort to shake myself out of that disconcerting mental state, I turned the conversation aimlessly into a different channel – French art, I believe it was (and I was rather annoyed that my companion did not pick up on the hints I dropped about my own artistic bent and ancestry – no doubt he was still a bit distracted by memory) – and so the afternoon drifted onward with littler effort than I had at first anticipated.

I purchased the items my stock was lacking at the chemist's and he in turn bought a small packet of herbs from the apothecary's down the block before we turned our steps back toward Baker Street. I noticed before we had even reached the end of George Street, however, that he was limping rather badly, his hand tense and clenching the head of his stick in a veritable death-grip.

"You know you've no need to overdo things," I observed quietly as we crossed at the corner.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked stiffly, glancing sideways at me and his jaw tightening ominously.

"Exercise for health is one thing – but you aren't going to do yourself any good by pushing it," I replied in slight annoyance at his stubbornness.

"I believe I should know my own limits, thank you," he replied coolly.

"You _should_, but do you? Finding said limits the hard way is not the wisest course of action," I retorted.

His face flushed in either embarrassment or anger, and I cringed, wondering if I had stepped over the line this time. Why is it that with this particular fellow sometimes I find my mouth speaking without thinking? I never have before had a problem with someone else knocking rational and logical speech out of my head before – why so with him?

Either way, I had no desire to spend the rest of the night with an incensed, out-of-sorts dinner companion – the fellow does have a temper and when it is unleashed it is quite formidable.

"I had no intention of being offensive, Doctor," I finally mumbled.

"You were not," he responded calmly, still glaring straight in front of him. "I do not take kindly to being told I am wrong, however. Another fault I neglected to mention in that impromptu cross-examination you subjected me to on the afternoon I met you."

I smirked, out of remembrance of that day and out of relief to find I had not pushed him over the edge into a livid outburst. "Well, that is one quality we share then," I said cheerfully. "I get quite heated when I am told I am mistaken over something. Specially if I am _not_ mistaken – which I rarely am."

"Humble, aren't you," he muttered slyly.

"No," I snorted. "I do not regard humility as a desirable virtue, Doctor. It distorts reality and fact – logic and accuracy are far more desirable traits than modesty, false or otherwise."

"That's a rather unusual look on life," he remarked with interest, eyeing me with less stiffness now.

"Is it? I should think it perfectly sensible and normal."

"You would."

I raised an eyebrow, not quite certain how to take that statement, but his smirk told me it was meant in gentle sarcasm and not as a personal affront.

"You appear to have a good many unusual philosophies," he began cautiously, obviously fishing once again for information from me.

"Philosophy? Never studied the stuff myself." I purposely deflected the gambit with a knowing smirk.

"Yes, I had noticed that fact, when you did not recognise my quoting Descartes the other evening," he replied.

"Whom?"

Wait…he had been drawing conclusions about my knowledge and limitations? How many other deductions had he made from details about me that I was not aware of? I do not at all appreciate the role-reversal of being observed and practised upon by an intelligent observer. This was (and still is, for it unnerves me yet) very disconcerting.

"Never mind," he chuckled at my cluelessness. "So you don't study philosophy, and yet you've come up with some of the strangest outlooks on life I have ever heard of."

"_You_ are the one who believes them to be strange, Doctor," I retorted in some discomfort, for he was starting to make me thoroughly uncomfortable.

Was this what my clients felt like when I gave them a string of information about themselves? It was not a pleasant sensation to feel as if I had been under a microscope for however long he had been studying me now.

However, gentleman that he is, he had the goodness not to press his advantage due to my unnerved discomfort; he dropped the subject gracefully and turned his attentions back to the glowing sunset, leaving me trying to loosen my tight cravat and wondering how narrow an escape I had just had.

I believe I should tell him my occupation soon, or else the next few weeks could be quite uncomfortable for me. The man is far sharper than I have given him credit for being, and he only appears to increase in that perception as he regains his health and thereby his mental acumen.

Part of me is absolutely fascinated by the idea, and part of me extremely wary that when once the mystery that is my life is cleared up for him he shall no longer be attracted by what is in reality a very simple and commonplace logical way of existence.

I am not at all certain I am pleased with the idea of living with someone who has the potential of being quite a worthy mental opponent on which to test my skills. I am completely unaccustomed to being given a shrewd challenge in that area.


	45. February 27, 1881

_February 27, 1881_

_I've no idea; forgot to wind my watch before going to bed and dashed if I'm going to get up to go check in the sitting room. Middle of the night._

Yesterday was a day of little note and even littler interest; I spent the morning at the Museum researching Chicago criminal gangs and the afternoon dissolving my chemical compound – an instructive but rather dull day.

The Doctor spent the morning at Hammersmith and returned in an extremely bad temper late afternoon. Exactly what had transpired to cloud the sun on his normally cheerful horizon I could not discern exactly, but the little I could deduce from his stiff bearing and the few words he growled at me told me it had something to do with a patient insulting the military, and by extension, him.

His being angry I could understand (the fellow has struck me as deeply loyal to a fault, and the logical continuance of that observation would mean that he is fiercely patriotic) – but to the point that he went without supper and sulked in his room about it, not coming out all night? Whatever had happened must have been far deeper than he told me, for the man is constant as the northern star, and seeing such a drastic change in him is akin to watching a planet fall from its orbit (whether round the earth or the sun, it makes no difference).

At any rate, I was bright enough to make myself scarce this morning well before he had risen and did not return until late this evening, just before supper. It had begun to drizzle – a nasty, cold trickle that delighted in working its way through one's outerwear – just prior to my reaching the house, so that I was both chilly and slightly damp when I arrived.

Mrs. Hudson was laying dinner when I entered the sitting room, and I frowned upon seeing that the woman was only putting out one plate and setting.

"Where's the Doctor?" I asked the woman, who turned a troubled eye to me.

"In his room," the lady said worriedly, casting a look at the stairs. "Has been all day, sir, except for a few hours this morning."

"Is he ill?" I asked with a frown, removing my napkin from its ring.

"I don't think so, sir, but he said he was not hungry for luncheon and wouldn't be down for dinner either," our landlady fairly wailed in her matronly dismay. "I don't know what he's thinking, Mr. Holmes."

"Obviously he _isn't_," I growled irritably, attacking my pork with rather more vehemence than was necessary.

Sulking was one thing, but this was ridiculous – what the blazes was wrong with the man? It was entirely out of character, and that irritated me to no end. One has only just got accustomed to a man's personality and he has to go and do something unpredictable like this. Honestly.

Mrs. Hudson clucked around for a moment in dismay before going off to do whatever it was she did of the evenings. I pushed back my chair ten minutes later, not very hungry and extremely bored having to eat alone in the absence of a problem with which to occupy my racing mind.

I attempted to amuse myself with one of my own monographs, and then with standing in the window and identifying people's professions at a glance, until darkness fell so thickly that between it and the drizzle slapping the panes gently with water I could no longer see a thing. I do so despise boredom!

I supposed I could use the cocaine-bottle, as I have occasionally when the fit has been black enough, but I am loathe to do so until I have no other recourse open to me. Besides, if the Doctor is in a disturbed mental state it would not be prudent to indulge in something that might cause an imbalanced outburst – I have no idea his thoughts on the matter of drugs and their uses yet, and I have absolutely no desire to be the catalyst that will launch his opinions on them.

In desperation, my mind wracking itself to pieces in solitude and boredom, I picked up my violin and began improvising, something I have not done for quite a while. I picked my way through a melody that sounded something akin to the drizzling rain mixed with a personification of my irritation with the world in general, and then I went back and attempted to put some chords into the song – if it could be called so.

After having murdered both the tune and two hours' worth of time with this experiment in mental stagnation, I tossed the instrument down and slouched moodily in my chair, staring into the fire and wondering if I should attempt to go to sleep with my mind in such a jaded and frustrated state – an exercise in futility, I believed, but perhaps I should try anyway.

The clock striking half-past eleven broke into my swirling black thoughts, and I yawned, listening to the rain pound upon the roof and absently counting the number of coals visible in the dwindling fire…sixteen, seventeen, eighteen –

Suddenly a loud crash as of shattering glass sounded from above me, and the smash jolted me half out of my chair and woke my dozing mind quite effectively. What on earth?

I was out of my chair and dashing up the steps in a matter of seconds, not waiting to knock before pushing the Doctor's door open. A loud peal of thunder rolled and cracked around the house just as I stepped foot inside the pitch-black room. I heard a frightened cry as my groping fingers reached the gas jet and turned it on, sending a warm glow to fight back the thick blackness.

No sooner had I performed the comforting action than I stepped back in surprise as the near-frantic figure struggling with some invisible enemy on the bed suddenly sat bolt upright, apparently just now awake and looking wildly round the room before seeing me wavering in the doorway. The shattered remains of the bedside lamp lay scattered across the bedside table and the floor; oil was pooling and starting to soak the carpet as it dripped off the side of the wood.

"Doctor, I –" I began feebly, as his deathly-white face flushed a dark red upon seeing me standing there, witness to whatever haunting had been going on here tonight. I could see even from the doorway that he was shaking, and his eyes still retained that intense terror.

"What are you doing?" he gasped, his voice more tremulous than I had ever before heard it – positively unsteady. "Get out of here!"

I frowned, somewhat stung and greatly puzzled by the reaction until I remembered that that was exactly what I should have said had he caught me in the midst of an embarrassing battle with the horrors my mind liked to conjure up as reality in my sleeping hours.

"Doctor –"

"Please," he whispered, drawing his knees up under the coverlet and bending his head over them. "Please…just leave."

I turned to do so, feeling my brows furrow without my intending to, but stopped before I shut the door. I looked back at the veteran, who was still visibly trembling, and my mind for some reason compared the situation to my own nightly battles with the demons that apparently were assigned to me.

My first and logical reaction would invariably be his – albeit slightly ruder than he had been – but despite my efforts to quash the fact and although I would never admit it outside the pages of this private journal, some small part of me did not really and truly want to be left entirely alone after being awakened from something of the kind. Deep down, some ridiculous emotional part of me wanted to not feel so absolutely alone and unaided in the dead of night after facing and not always vanquishing one of those terrors.

Besides, _no one_ orders me to do anything.

He was still shaking, his head resting upon his arms which were folded across the top of his knees. There was no chair to be seen, and so I was forced somewhat against my comfort to sit on the edge of the bed (carefully avoiding the pieces of broken glass) at the opposite end – giving him plenty of space and wondering if I were really doing the right thing. Apparently so, for he made no move to ask me to depart again.

What now?

I fiddled nervously with the belt of my dressing-gown for a moment, until I heard him draw a sharp intake of breath and let it out with a shudder that shook the entire bed. I glanced up to see him lift his head finally, smoothing back the hair that had fallen over his forehead with a shaking hand, and look at me.

"I woke you up, didn't I," he whispered in shame. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, Doctor – I was awake, sitting up downstairs with my violin," I hastened to reassure him. "I heard the crash and thought perhaps a branch had come through the window or something…"

"My arm must have knocked the lamp off," he whispered, leaning over to glance at the broken glass and oil upon the floor.

I was about to offer to mop up the mess when my eyes narrowed upon his sleeve.

"Doctor – you're injured," I pointed out, leaning forward to lay a hand lightly on his left arm.

He glanced down in surprise, and then a wince tightened his face, as if he had only just felt the pain of what looked to be a very nasty set of cuts that had already bled a good bit onto the sleeve of his nightshirt.

"Should not have kept that lamp so close to the bed," he muttered, letting a hiss of air escape from between his clenched teeth as he pulled the sleeve up to inspect the gashes.

A loud explosion of thunder suddenly and without warning shook the house, and I felt him gasp and jump under my grip in a sudden reflex of residual fright.

"Easy, Watson," I found myself saying without taking the time to think about it. "That needs to be taken care of, I rather think. Shall I fetch your bag?"

He swallowed hard and shook his head with a silent expression of pain. "No…the light's not good enough in here; there's still glass in at least one of the scratches," he muttered, scrutinizing the wounds. "I'll have to go downstairs."

I bit back my query (to the effect of was he capable of managing that), knowing how insulting that would be, and instead I tossed him his dressing-gown and then mopped up the spilt oil with the towel from his washstand. The glass could and would have to wait until a more propitious time.

By the time I had finished this task, he had donned his dressing-gown and slippers and was fumbling to tie his belt, finally managing the task and getting to his feet – or trying to, for he swayed and would have fallen had he not caught hold of the bed-post with his uninjured hand.

I heard a soft pained curse as his eyes closed for a moment. The weather, no doubt, was not helping his mobility any, nor could the blood that was dripping from the larger cut on his hand.

"Doctor, if you don't mind my saying so, you don't look quite well," I said quietly, smoothly, in the tone with which I attempted to gently placate frazzled clients (for despite what my insufferable brother may say, I am perfectly capable of being a decent human being when and if I so choose). "Allow me, please?"

Testimony to his shot nerve and/or weariness was immediately evident in the fact that he nodded, eyes still closed for a moment, and that he then took my proffered arm without any argument whatsoever, leaning heavily upon both me and the banister as we made our way unhurriedly down the steps. Once inside the sitting room, he promptly dropped his grip on my arm in favour of putting a hand on the wall, moving slowly toward the table.

I scowled at his stubbornness but merely kicked some life into the fire and then went for some clean towels, coming back into the room to find that he (thankfully) had made it to the table without falling and was seated, rubbing his head with his uninjured hand.

"Thank you," he whispered, spreading a towel on the table and placing his injured (and still shaking) hand upon it. "I…shall need my bag…"

"I think you might need a stiff drink first," I said dubiously, not liking the faintness of his voice or absolute pallour of his face. I poured him a large brandy and then and only then went for his medical bag, which was sitting neatly under his desk.

He had drained the glass by the time I returned and plopped the bag down on the table, and I was rather relieved to see some little colour return to his face and his eyes become slightly more sharp and aware, under the soothing influence of performing a task he knew well.

I shifted nervously from one foot to the other while he silently went through the bag with one hand, extracting the instruments and bandaging he needed. I awkwardly offered my help but was waved back with a fierce scowl of pride.

"No, I can do this on my own," he muttered. "Doesn't need stitches or anything, just a careful hand."

I nearly voiced my observation that at the moment his hand was anything but careful, as it was still trembling, but stopped, knowing he would not appreciate hearing that truth. His progress was slow, but finally the glass had been removed and antiseptic applied.

Finally, as he tried awkwardly to hold the bandage in place with a finger and wrap it round the injury with the other, I thought _to blazes with his infernal stubbornness_ and stepped forward to put a light hand over the end of the gauze and hold it in place so he could finish the job.

He glared momentarily at me before the defensive bitterness faded to a resigned sort of gratitude, and I received a murmured thanks for my trouble as he made quick work of winding the bandaging round the cuts. It was a good thing that his left hand had been the one to take the brunt of the impact and not his right.

I believe I breathed a greater sigh of relief when the ordeal was over than he did. The small dash of colour that had returned to his face suddenly seeped from it, and he swallowed hard, obviously both limp and exhausted. I without taking the time to ask permission pulled him to his feet and guided his steps over to the couch, where he collapsed without a word, resting his head in his bandaged hand.

I replaced the supplies into his bag and balled the towels up, tossing them into the bath with the rest of the items for laundering. Then I returned to the sitting room and awkwardly shuffled my feet in the doorway, not knowing what to do or say and wondering why in heaven's name I had done this much thus far – I had not been thinking about it until now. What in the world _was_ I doing?

He was reclining now on the settee, his eyes open and fixed moodily on the fire. Finally I gulped uncomfortably.

"Would you like to be left alone, Doctor?" I fumbled awkwardly.

He glanced up at me blankly for a moment, uncomprehending, and then shook himself. "Not necessarily," he replied softly.

I took that as permission and folded myself into my armchair, taking down my oldest pipe for a nerve-soothing smoke.

"I'm sorry, I've been in such a foul mood the last two days," I heard him whisper reluctantly after a few moments of silence, during which only the rain pounding upon the roof was the only sound I could hear.

I shrugged uncomfortably, considerably out of my depth in a situation like this one and at an utter loss what to say. "It is no business of mine, Doctor, and though I may be inclined to pry at times, I should hope I have more tact than to do so in this case."

He made no answer for a moment, the fire reflected in his eyes for a space of several seconds. Then they fluttered closed in exhaustion as he whispered simply, "Thank you."

I exhaled in a cloud of smoke, relieved that apparently that was where the conversation was going to end – I need not know what sort of nightmare was haunting the fellow; I had ghosts and demons of my own to deal with and I had absolutely no desire to imagine what horrors a war could play on a sensitive man.

After a moment of steady rhythmic drumming of rain and occasional rumbles of fading thunder, I reached down and took up my violin, going back to my improvising – but this time a quieter, less jarring (and considerably more melodious) song than I had previously been indulging in.

Eight minutes and forty-three seconds later, the rain stopped. Two minutes and seventeen seconds later, the Doctor had fallen back to sleep, his breathing steady and calm.

It was not until just now, as I was digging through my mess of papers and files upon my desk in search of this journal, that I came across today's newspaper, discarded earlier in the day by the Doctor before I had had a chance to look at it and consequently getting buried amongst the rubble of a destroyed file system.

As soon as my eyes had fallen upon the page in question, I knew exactly what had triggered this nighttime demon. Yesterday, February 26 – a battle at Majuba Hill, over in Africa; the Boer War. A horrible and bloody defeat for the British, and it was unclear yet whether the fault for the catastrophe lay with our own men or not. No doubt that news, just another typical article to anyone else absently keeping up with current affairs, had hit him hard, coupled with whatever had happened yesterday to frustrate his sensibilities.

Logically, I understand that war is necessary sometimes to protect that which keeps our nation the empire she is – but that does not mean that necessity makes the thing any easier for the men whose lives are ruined or crippled for years afterwards because of it; and those are only the ones who survive its horrors. My sleeping companion was luckier than most of those men at Majuba Hill were yesterday, and more so than three-quarters of the men in his own battles. The thought is rather sickening.

I really must stop staying up so late with no problem upon which to fix my mind – I seem to grow dreadfully melancholy and far too philosophical over matters that I need not concern my mind with; they make no difference to me and my work, so why should such a thing trouble me so?

As the Doctor continues to remain fast asleep, I shall go to bed myself now and hope for a brighter morning than the day and night were.


	46. February 28, 1881

_February 28, 1881_

_9:31 p.m._

Due to my late and rather disquieting night, I slept very late the next morning – so late that apparently (for once) the Doctor had beaten me up and to breakfast, for he was seated at the table picking uneasily at his eggs when I stumbled into the room, still half-asleep, around nine.

"Morning," I muttered angrily as if daring him to answer, opting to go for my pipe rather than ring for breakfast just yet.

He returned the greeting in a subdued, tired tone, and I absently wondered how well he had slept after the night's events. His bandaged hand was hidden well out of sight in his dressing-gown pocket, and other than the twisted blanket on the sofa there were no visible signs of anything amiss or unusual happening during the dark hours.

"Coffee?" I heard him ask hesitantly as I lit my pipe.

"Erm…actually, yes, that would be rather welcome," I said from behind a yawn as I opened the door to pick up the papers Mrs. Hudson had laid there.

He poured the liquid into the extra cup and shoved it and the milk pitcher across to me before going back to his eggs – or _pretending_ to go back to them at least, for it was obvious he was merely pushing them around his plate to make it look to Mrs. Hudson as if he had eaten them.

I opened the _Times_ and scanned it methodically, removing the agony column and criminal news as was my custom before handing the remaining spreads over to him. I duly noted the wary glance he took at the foreign news, and also the light of deeply hidden fire in his eyes as he put his fork down and began to read the page that I had already seen held further news of the catastrophe in Africa.

I watched over the top of the _Standard_ as his lips tightened and his jaw clenched the further he read, and the right hand that held the paper tightened gradually until its pressure was wrinkling the page. I frowned, for I wanted no more outbursts or moods as had been in evidence yesterday – I intended to stay in all day to update my index, and having a temperamental, morose companion was not an appealing prospect in the least.

I saw his eyes reach the end of the paper and contract in a sort of depressive resentment, and without thinking I reached over and pulled the _Times_ out of his hands, receiving a livid glare for my rash action.

"You have done your part, Doctor," I said sternly, returning the glare with equal fire (it is an utterly impossible feat for any mere mortal to win a battle of wills with me), "and you have no control over whether others do theirs. Stop trying to take the responsibility of the entire British Army upon your own shoulders."

"That is _none of your business_," he snarled through his teeth, obviously making an effort to not let his seething temper run rampant over the breakfast table. Actually, I fancied it would be better (and certainly divertingly amusing) if he did, for at least that would be preferable to his being depressed and unstable all morning.

"No, it is not," I agreed, purposely adopting an air of annoying cheerfulness. "But nor is it yours," I continued pointedly. "It is not your regiment, not your war, and should not be cause for you to be so upset. Becoming angry regarding things over which one has absolutely no control only leads to frustration."

I saw his hand clench tightly round his coffee-cup before he set it down, still glowering at me. I raised an eyebrow at him, completely unperturbed, until he finally sighed and I saw the fire in his eyes slowly flicker out and be extinguished.

"You're quite right, of course," he murmured, rubbing his head uneasily.

"I always am," I agreed complacently. "Are you going to eat that sausage?"

He gave a small chuckle and shook his head. "No, but it's rather cold by now," he said in amusement. "You'd be better off ringing for a fresh plate."

"Let us make that two, as you certainly won't eat it cold either," I said slyly, ignoring his look of dismay as I left the room to bellow for Mrs. Hudson.

The good woman's stern dressing-down for my breach of etiquette in yelling for her soon turned to an enthusiastic congratulating me on getting the man to actually eat something…not that I really had, but who was I to argue with the woman truly acting as if she did not despise me (for once)?

I returned to the sitting room grinning, to find my fellow-lodger carefully probing his bandaged wrist and hand, which fact he hastily hid upon my return by shoving the offending limb back into his pocket. Ridiculous pride.

"How's your hand?"

"It's fine," he said hastily. "I mean, I shan't be performing surgery with it for a few days or any such, but it is still mobile."

"Good. Have you told Mrs. Hudson about the violent murder of her precious lamp yet?" I asked lightly.

His initial embarrassment faded into a low laugh. "No, I have not got my nerve up yet to do so," he replied with amusement.

"Well if we can get the pieces out of the room, perhaps she won't notice," I pondered thoughtfully.

"You think we can?" he asked eagerly, and I nearly laughed at his childish franticness to hide the fact that he had broken something. "She is going to the market today, I believe, so if we could get a broom while she's gone –"

He broke off mid-sentence, flushing guiltily as the door opened and the woman herself entered. I hastily hid my grinning face in the _Standard_, leaving him to stutter his way through the formalities and courtesies on his own.

The good woman fussed dramatically over him, informing him that she was making a cinnamon coffee-ring for him if he would just eat all that, etc., etc., and doing a perfectly sterling job of thoroughly embarrassing the poor chap. To me, she only plunked the plate down with an admonition to _not_ smoke at the table, before leaving the room in a swirl of skirts.

We both simultaneously burst out laughing after the door had shut, more at each other than at her.

"Can you eat an entire coffee-ring single-handedly?" I asked with genuine interest.

"Can you go for more than ten minutes without smoking something?" he retorted, raising a medical eyebrow at me and digging into his ham with more enthusiasm than I had seen in days from him.

After breakfast I thoroughly made a mess of the sitting room while he sneaked downstairs for a broom and swept the glass up in his bedroom. When he returned with the discarded newspapers full of glass to dispose of the shards in the waste-paper basket, he stopped short, gaping at the blizzard of paper I had unintentionally strewn over the room.

"Can you not keep your things contained in some sort of system?" he demanded incredulously, hopping awkwardly over a pile of folders to the dustbin.

"That is the point of my organization, Doctor," I pointed out sensibly. "Once I sort them, then yes – but until then I have to be able to see all of what I have."

"I've never seen a man save so many pieces of desultory information," he muttered under his breath, though I well heard it and grinned at his annoyance.

He glanced round dubiously and then turned a reproving eye to me. "May I ask whereabouts I am allowed to sit in this mess?"

I realised belatedly that I had rather taken possession of everything in the room, including the furniture. "Oh…erm…sorry, Doctor," I fumbled awkwardly, hastily shoving the pile of newspapers off his desk chair.

"_Thank _you," he said dryly, seating himself and arranging his frock-coat fastidiously before pulling down a journal and beginning to scribble, completely oblivious to all else after five minutes of concentration.

I spent the next three hours clearing the furniture and pasting articles into my common-place books, finally finishing my task just before Mrs. Hudson brought up our luncheon. I was quite surprised that the time had gone by so quickly, and apparently the Doctor was as well for he was still scribbling busily at his desk, occasionally staring off into space and absently biting the end of his pencil. He jumped slightly when the door opened, glanced about, and then pulled his watch from his pocket to look at it incredulously before replacing it and stretching his cramped limbs.

I scrambled to my feet and tossed my freshly-updated books upon the settee in preparation for reshelving later. The Doctor looked about in some surprise as he arose stiffly from his desk, no doubt shocked that I had managed to clean the entire place in so short a time. Hmph. As if he is any paragon of tidiness himself.

Halfway through luncheon, the sun abruptly decided it would shine itself into the sitting room, effectively blinding me momentarily when it bounced off my silverware.

"The rain stopped," my companion observed in surprise.

"It stopped _two hours ago_, Doctor," I corrected his stunning and quite belated observation. "You were too deep into your novel of the century to notice."

He blushed – evidently I had correctly hit the nerve of his storytelling bent. I smirked at his discomfort and finished off my carrots with gusto; then tossed my napkin down and rose from the table, going over to my chemicals and setting out the necessary items for my experiment, the second time round.

"I take it you want me to keep quiet now," he ventured with a rueful grin.

"Just don't talk about springtime and flowers, Doctor," I replied with a grin at his ridiculous good-nature.

He nodded and finished his meal while I pulled the Bunsen burner and a couple of empty retorts within easy reach. I double-checked to make certain I was in possession of all the necessary items for the experiment and then seated myself, only to feel suddenly uneasy as if I were being scrutinised. I glanced up warily to see the Doctor sitting in his chair, looking at me.

"Something the matter?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No, no," he hastily mumbled, obviously flustered. "Just…I was wondering…"

"Hmm?"

"Would you mind terribly if I were to watch you?" he asked curiously, and somewhat timorously.

I frowned in instinctive reflex, for every time I had been forced to have someone watching one of my experiments (usually Stamford, confound the talkative man) I had invariably ended said experiment by preventing myself from breaking a beaker over the fellow's head only through my immense will-power.

Still, a doctor (and this one especially) was usually well-versed in basic chemistry and as such at least would be able to discuss results intelligently with me – something I had not had opportunity to do in quite a long time. Besides, the novelty of having an obviously admiring audience was intriguing.

Why not?

"I suppose," I finally said, just as he began to look uncomfortable at my hesitation. "But I warn you, I must have full concentration."

"In other words, keep my mouth shut until the end," he stated with a grin.

"That is one way of putting it, yes," I agreed, motioning him to the opposite corner of the table. "I beg that you will not speak to me or make sudden moves."

"Yes, startling a fellow who is handling concentrated ammonia is not exactly a wise course of action," he retorted dryly, taking up one of the dining chairs with his uninjured hand and dragging it across the room.

I began to mix the two chemicals I was attempting to use in conjunction to dissolve the compound, being very ill-at-ease at first due to the sharp curiousity with which he interestedly followed my movements; but after a few minutes I forgot he was sitting there, so quiet did he remain, and the experiment concluded in a much more pleasant (and certainly less invasive) manner than it had the other day.

It was only when I had sat back in my chair with a grin of smug satisfaction that I noticed he had been taking notes on a pad of paper and, to my surprise, began firing questions at me that I found myself actually having to think about to answer. Apparently the man did indeed grasp the significance of the experiment (a long explanation which I shall not here draw out, as the process is not yet perfected) and actually followed my thoughts and processes with keen intelligence, a rarity in this modern day's desert of intellectualism.

I replaced the various beakers and phials I had used, and when I turned from doing so I saw with some amusement the fellow was peeking curiously into the eyepiece of my microscope.

"This is a fine instrument," he remarked appreciatively.

"Fair," I shrugged. "But I am getting a new one – had my eye on it for some time now in a shop on Oxford. Much higher-powered, and as you can see this one is rather battered from three years of heavy use."

I glanced out of the window as I stood to stretch, seeing that the sun was still (will wonders never cease) shining warmly; no time like the present.

"Actually, I believe I shall go and purchase the thing now, before the rain starts up again," I said suddenly, shoving my chair into the table and darting into my bedroom for my jacket.

"Oh…" I heard the Doctor's voice trail off as I vanished from view. "Well, enjoy the fresh air, then," he called after me, moving the chair in which he had been sitting back over to the table.

I snorted, re-entering the room and arranging my collar as I made my way to my desk to retrieve my cheque-book. I've no idea why, but I glanced at my companion, who was now sitting in his chair, staring idly into the fire and looking for all the world as if he were completely bored out of his mind.

Not good. Boredom leads to moodiness, moodiness to depression and flaring tempers, as well I knew from personal experience – and after a night like the last, this could only turn into a tense and thoroughly uncomfortable evening for both of us if he were left alone with his dark thoughts and darker newspapers. I had no desire to spend my evening tiptoeing round a volatile veteran.

"You might as well come along – you need to get Mrs. Hudson a new lamp anyhow," I suggested sensibly.

He looked up on the instant, the lethargy fleeing immediately into a ridiculous excitement – honestly, the man is so easy to please it is simply inane. "You don't mind?"

"You seem to ask that particular question rather a lot, Doctor – for a man of letters you don't seem to have a varied stock of affirmatives. It grows deucedly monotonous," I told him, quite seriously.

He tugged on his collar in a bit of nervousness. "Well…I…"

"Oh, just get your hat," I snorted, nearly shutting my hand in my desk drawer in my absent-mindedness. I sent the offending drawer a dark glare before shoving my cheque-book into my jacket pocket.

The outing was less painful than I would have (and did, actually) expected; one quality I have noticed the fellow possesses is that of the ability to discern when to speak and when not to (for the most part). I was rather pleased that he did not attempt to force me into conversation other than the normal comments about the scenery, leaving me free to peruse my own avenues of thought as we walked.

I spent a good bit of my reward money on the new microscope (though it was definitely well worth the price), and I practically was obliged to forcibly remove the Doctor from the premises of the shop before he spent his entire remaining bit of pension-money on several set of antique volumes of poetry and literature.

As if the man does not have enough books as it is; they are _everywhere_ and turn up in the most random places in the house – I found one on the stairs the other day (nearly tripped over it, too, I might add) and another on my shelves beside the jars containing my collection of animal teeth and claws.

The rest of the day passed with little to make it noteworthy, save that the evening post brought my copy of that magazine which holds my article regarding the science of detection and deduction. I am rather proud of the thing, and though my name is not mentioned in the byline it still is a work that would revolutionize modern detection if those idiots in the official forces would only read it (unfortunately, most of their literacy consists of reading the instructions on how many tea leaves go into one pot).

I wonder what the Doctor would say if he knew I have had something published?

Jealousy at least would bestow upon the man an undesirable characteristic (so far I cannot see that he has one save his ability of being good-natured to the point of being _sickening_). Perhaps I shall give him the chance to judge both my writing and my occupation for themselves soon.

Perhaps.


	47. March 2, 1881

_March 2, 1881_

_9:37 p.m._

Yesterday was a day that took the word _boring_ to an entirely new zenith of being. I retained no case, no ambition, no energy, and no wish to even move myself from one spot to another. Therefore, I did not.

After eating a piece of toast to placate my (nauseatingly) fussing landlady I planted myself on the couch with my violin and a stack of newspapers and did not move from that position until close to suppertime. I do so loathe being in that sort of _blasé_ state, but what is an active brain to do besides burn itself out in the absence of any stimulation whatsoever?

The better portion of the night and this morning I spent in something of the same manner; the Doctor, after a single mild remonstrance to the effect that Mrs. Hudson would start dusting me if I did not move at least once a day, ignored my depression and lethargy and busied himself doing heaven only knows what until he left just after noon – volunteering his time at some hospital, he said. I believe that is what he said, anyway; I really was not listening or caring.

How long I dozed on and off I have no idea, but I did awake sometime before supper, to find that the sunshine, which surprisingly had continued to show its face the last two days amid sporadic showers, had long since vanished into darkness. It was late; though the days were getting longer than they had been it still grew dark around half-past seven these days, earlier if there were a cloud cover of any magnitude.

I stretched lazily and glanced at the clock – five minutes past eight. The Doctor had been gone a rather long time, then.

As if in irony to my thoughts, I heard the door open and shut below and then slow, _very_ slow footsteps ascending the stairs – took him a full minute and sixteen seconds to ascend, which is nearly twice as long as the usual time.

He paused outside the sitting room, either to rest or to debate whether or not to attempt to brave the storm of my black mood – possibly both. At any rate, another twenty-three seconds had passed, by my reckoning, before he opened the door and peered warily into our shared domain.

I could have laughed (but did not, for it would expend too much needless energy) at the expression upon his face when I waved haphazardly at him over the side of the sofa.

"Well, I am glad to see you at least moved about a bit today," he ventured, still in annoying-medical-mode (obviously).

I raised an eyebrow, dutifully intrigued. "I am in the same position in which I was all morning, Doctor."

"Yes, but there is tobacco ash adhering to your dressing-gown and scattered on the carpet there. As you've no pipe in your pocket or hand, that obviously means you had to at least move yourself at some point to get the thing from the rack," he responded.

I was suitably impressed – while it certainly was no great feat of intelligence compared to my own immense powers of observation, it still was a cut above the average in the ability. Very good.

Obviously I was bored beyond belief if such things could truly elicit anything akin to respect from my mind.

He had limped over to the fire as he spoke, shivering slightly; no doubt the temperature had dropped with the arrival of darkness. I narrowed my eyes upon his trouser-cuffs and shoes and then turned a reproving eye up to him.

"What in blazes did you think you were doing, walking through Whitechapel at this hour of the evening?" I demanded, for it was a capitally stupid thing to do, to walk anywhere in that vicinity when dusk began to fall.

He blinked slowly, processing my statement, before looking down at his footwear with a nod of acknowledgement. "I suppose you have of course deduced I was at Royal London Hospital?" he asked pertly, apparently more fascinated by my deduction than my irritation at his foolishness.

"Yes, that would be the only hospital nearby that would cause you to walk through Whitechapel, unless you were at a small charity clinic," I retorted with some irritation – had the man no sense whatsoever? "But what in the name of heaven did you think you were _doing_? Do you have any idea how dangerous Whitechapel can be this time of evening?"

He fidgeted uneasily, and I realised my voice had risen considerably – why the devil was I so intense about the matter? If he wished to get himself knifed in an alley then that was his business – except that it would put a serious curtail on my finances, as I could not pay the entire rent myself…

"I had forgotten how bad some parts of the city are," he admitted. "It's been too long since I lived here."

Something in his tone caught my rapidly-waning attention, bringing it screeching back to the situation at hand. I sat bolt upright and scrutinized the man much more carefully, causing him to fidget even more.

"What happened?" I demanded.

"Nothing," he protested lamely, shifting his weight in his chair and gingerly stretching his bad leg toward the warming fire.

"Do not insult my powers of perception, Doctor. Were you attacked?" He bore no visible signs of injury, but knowing his obstinacy he could be mortally wounded and not show it…

"Well…in a way…" he mumbled, and either the fire was doing its job to thaw him or else he was blushing. Embarrassment, then?

"In a way?"

"Not as in being attacked with the intent of stealing my pocketbook or something, if that is what you mean. I am perfectly fine." He furtively diverted the question with a effortlessness that threw me off temporarily until I realised what he had done. _Oh, no, you don't, Watson._

"Doctor, what happened?" I demanded, thoroughly disgruntled that my powers of intimidation to elicit information (which seemed to work perfectly fine upon unsuspecting members of the criminal populace) kept coming up against a stone wall with this stubborn chap.

"_Nothing_," he retorted with increasing vehemence.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," I growled. "Were you attacked?"

"No."

"Accosted, then?"

He squirmed uncomfortably, his face darkening in what was patently obvious high embarrassment, and on the instant I realised just what type of person had probably done the accosting.

I freely admit that I could not help it – I had had no entertainment all day and this incident for some reason struck me as incredibly hilarious. I threw back my head and shouted with laughter, causing my companion to glare at me with some heat.

"It was _not_ funny!"

"On the contrary, Doctor," I chortled, attempting to school my features back into normality and failing miserably, "the mental picture of you, the very embodiment of stolidly proper British honour, being accosted in Whitechapel by a lady of –"

"Holmes, stop it!" Had his face gotten any redder, I believed he might faint from all the blood being there instead of in his arteries.

I tried to repress a final ripple of snickering that went through me, choking in an effort to stop my laughter. "Well, it serves you right for being foolhardy enough to walk in that district after dark," I told him finally, repressing an even wider grin.

"I shan't make the mistake again, believe you me," he muttered. "I would rather face a fully-armed Ghazi than another such…_woman_, I assure you."

I snickered briefly, hastily erasing the amusement from my face when he glared once more at me.

"But in all seriousness, Doctor," I finally said quite soberly when once my hilarity had subsided, "it is not safe to be afoot in that area or even the surrounding areas after dark – you could very easily get yourself killed that way in London. You mustn't do such a foolish thing again."

He glanced briefly at me, some odd expression on his face (besides embarrassment) that I could not quite place and frankly did not care enough to attempt to decipher. "Thank you, I shan't," he said quietly.

"Good." I suddenly found that I was quite hungry, having skipped both breakfast and luncheon. "MRS. HUDSON!"

The Doctor jumped at least four inches into the air before turning an annoyed eye in my direction once he landed again. "For heaven's sake, open the door at least if you are going to bellow for the poor woman like that," he admonished in disapproval.

"Why? My voice is perfectly capable of traveling that far," I protested in flawless logic.

"Yes, and it's also capable of _deafening_ a chap as well," he retorted dryly, stretching out his feet to the fire and rubbing the back of his neck tiredly.

"Oh." So it was. Perhaps I should make a donation of extra cotton-wool to his medical supplies.

I was prevented from further continuance of that interesting thought by the (rather flustered and angry) arrival of our landlady, to inform me that she had been on her way up the stairs with supper when I had shouted and in consequence startled her so that she dropped the tray.

I now have brought my eviction threats to a resounding three in two months, and I am spending the majority of my remaining reward money to purchase a new meat platter. When I protested firmly against such punishment (after the woman had left, naturally – I have no desire to face _her_ down), the Doctor merely observed mildly that I was lucky I was not being forced to replace the carpeting on the stairs as well.

Insufferable fellow.

Over a belated dinner a half-hour later, after exhausting the usual small-talk about the weather, the events of the day (which in my case encompassed exactly _nyet_), and so on, he laid down his fork for a moment and looked curiously at me.

_Ha,_ I thought, _he has yielded at last – is going to ask me what in blazes is my occupation._

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" he requested curiously.

"Not if I reserve the right of refusing to answer," I replied mischievously.

"Fair enough," he chuckled, picking up his fork again and absently spearing his potatoes in a neat row. "Then…what the deuce ever caused you to make a study of dirt and soil samples?"

I smirked as he added with a dry laugh, "Obviously you can identify almost any mud found anywhere in the capital, and you cannot profess to think that is a normal pastime."

"If you have not identified the fact that I am not a normal man by this point in this shared lodging, then you are a considerably less perceptive fellow than I have hitherto pegged you, Doctor," I replied, stuffing the remainder of my dinner roll into my mouth.

He looked incredulously at me for a moment before shaking his head. "You have the most roundabout way of delivering backhanded compliments of anyone I've come across," he snorted in some amusement. "Now answer the question – you are purposely distracting me."

Ah, beautiful directness at last. I do appreciate the fact that the fellow is so unwisely honest that he says exactly what he thinks, when tact does not dictate he do otherwise.

However, _I_ am in no way inhibited by such innate frankness. _You shall not have me quite so easily, Doctor_.

"The question…why I can identify earth and gravel samples so accurately?"

"No, that was _not_ the question and you well know it," he retorted. "I asked why you ever _began_ to do so – not why you _can_; obviously the answer to that is that you've studied it intensely. But _why_ study it?"

"Would you be satisfied if I told you it was because I _wanted_ to?" I asked pertly, grinning over my port glass.

"No, I would not," he retorted, his eyes sparkling with unusual good humour.

"Then I shan't say it." I shrugged complacently, spearing another slice of beef and hiding the gloating grin upon my face by bending over it to cut it up.

"You are without a doubt the most infuriatingly fascinating mind I've ever conversed with," cried he in some obvious exasperation.

"And you said that _I_ have a roundabout way of expressing backhanded compliments?" I asked pointedly, very much enjoying this sparring (much more so than he was).

"Oh, never mind," he growled petulantly, his brows furrowing in an obvious pout as he impaled the last potato on his fork with rather an over-exertion of force.

I was quite disappointed that he retreated from the field so hastily – continuing the battle would have meant a rather enjoyable and stimulating evening.

Ah well, there is always tomorrow…


	48. March 3, 1881

_March 3, 1881_

_10:55 p.m._

I am afraid…I have a confession to make, one I should never dream of revealing anywhere besides the pages of this private journal (and I may burn this entry despite the privacy, for never in a hundred years would I want anyone to ever learn this shameful secret). But…that man has driven me to the point of sad distraction. If he refuses to ask me what I do for a living, then by heaven I am going to volunteer the information to him, before my brain implodes with the tension.

If the chap is still too dense or else too courteous to take the blatantly obvious bait I have just left prepared for him, then I shall completely concede the victory to a superiour will-power (heaven forbid, but I cannot endure the madness any longer).

I have taken my magazine and circled "The Book of Life" article (in very visible and dark ink, I may add), and left it upon his place at the table – he will no doubt see it at breakfast tomorrow and question me about it. He _must _question me, before I go stark raving mad with exasperation.

_Scientia ipsa potentia est __(1)_, but obviously the refusal to attain such knowledge is an even _greater_ power, for he has frustrated me nearly beyond all endurance. The fellow is simply either too non-confrontational (which I highly doubt) or too polite (which I definitely hope not, as that would be deucedly boring) to ask me a simple, direct question.

And I gave him ample opportunity to do so today, too!

I was awakened early by thunder and a subsequent downpour that began to drown the city, but he slept very late, and by the time he did finally make his slow and noticeably painful way downstairs I had already consumed my breakfast and was sitting in front of the fire, dissecting the newspapers and smoking my third (or was it fourth or fifth?) pipe of the morning.

I glanced up to give him a cursory once-over, noting _en passant _that he had removed the bandaging from his hand save over the largest of the scratches, and that though as immaculately dressed as ever he looked thoroughly exhausted, as if he had either not slept well or was in a deal of pain – perhaps both.

Judging from the fact that when he entered he hastened to place a sturdy walking-stick into the stand before I perceived that he was using it, this observation seemed to bear out the latter theory. The man shall do himself an injury one day because of his refusal to allow anyone else to see what he evidently considers a weakness – that is unconditional brainless pride.

"Doctor, I am not going to think less of you if you use a cane to get around with on such a foul day as this," I said dryly, not looking up from my scrutiny of the agony column.

"I only need it on the stairs," he growled irritably, more collapsing than sitting in his chair by the fire with a weary sigh.

I shrugged, barely glancing up before marking a few interesting items that I wished to peruse later.

"Shall I ring for breakfast?" I asked him somewhat absently, sorting through the remainder of the paper and hurling the sporting section at him.

He reached out to catch the spread with one hand. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Yes, but what's that got to do with it?"

"I am not very hungry," he replied with a small sigh, beginning to distractedly peruse the papers.

"Mrs. Hudson will not be pleased," I warned him, carefully and methodically ripping an article out of the paper (my scissors were all the way on my desk and I did not want to get up to retrieve them).

He made no response but merely flipped through the pages I had handed him. Hmph.

I only noticed after I had done sorting the papers and was idly puffing on my pipe, that he had already read that exact page he was holding three times when he turned back to it for the fourth time. He was obviously not in point of fact reading the thing – and upon closer scrutiny I could see that his jaw was clenched so tight that a vein stood out upon his neck. He must indeed be in a deal of pain, then, but attempting to give no visible sign of it.

It was nearing eleven; a little over two hours remained until luncheon…not enough time for me to get out and do anything…what could I do to stave off boredom in the house, that would not be grating upon his probably raw nerves (like attempting – the operative word there being _attempting_ – to learn the new Chopin piece I had bought the other evening)…

And something that would sufficiently intrigue him to the point that he would break down, admit defeat, and finally ask me more about myself. Hmm…ah. Oh, perfect.

"Doctor," I exclaimed suddenly, causing him to start and crinkle the paper as his hand clenched.

He glared at me over the top of the racing page and I waved his irritation off airily. "My apologies. But I was wondering if you would be willing to help me with an experiment this morning."

The paper lowered to reveal his face, now suitably intrigued but definitely dubious. "A chemical experiment?"

"No, no, a more physical one. I need an observant eye besides my own, and you showed remarkable perception the other day in showing me what was wrong with my limp," I informed him, wriggling in my chair in my eagerness.

"You want to practice more on me?" he asked warily.

"Yes, but with your full cooperation of course. No surprises, but I need to see if I am capable of taking in someone who knows me fairly well," I replied excitedly.

"Oh…that's all right, then," he sighed with relief, straightening up with a tiny smile. "Then go right ahead. What do you want me to do?"

"Just sit there and rest yourself – give me a few minutes and I shall return," I shouted over my shoulder as I darted into my bedroom to rummage through my wardrobe.

This would accomplish two goals – for one, I truly needed the practice in some of my less-frequently-used disguises and he needed the distraction. For another, surely this would be a perfect catalyst that would trigger his asking me my occupation. Simplicity itself.

Or so I thought.

Two and a half hours later, I had used up far too much of my store of makeup and false hair (I must remember to purchase more supplies…once my business starts up again and I have some spare funds, thanks to most of mine vanishing into the personification of a new meat platter), and Watson was laughing so hard that he nearly asphyxiated right there in front of me.

"Doctor, breathing might be a good idea right about now." I said with amusement, as his face grew red and he fell back limply in his armchair with a weak chuckle.

"Where on earth did you ever learn to pick up accents like that?" he asked feebly, still chortling at my latest impression.

After two hours of his encouragement and obvious admiration with various examples of my masquerades, I had got up the courage to attempt the guise and voice of a Scottish nobleman, and apparently my performance was good enough that a native found it amusing.

Am I hopelessly vain if the fact makes me feel rather warmly inside?

"As a child I was always fascinated by the theatre, for one thing, Doctor," I replied, removing the heavy (and deucedly scratchy – how the devil does that man stand to keep a moustache?) beard that had formed the basis of my facial transformation. "And I have a natural ear and flair for the business, I have been told."

"Were you ever a professional actor, or is that just a hobby?" he asked curiously.

"Never professionally for any real length of time," I responded evasively, "though my occupation does require thespianism occasionally…"

He smirked as if to wordlessly inform me he was _not_ going to be so easily baited, which sent a flash of impatience through me as I removed the rest of my disguise and re-donned my jacket and cravat.

"Oh…is that all you have?" he inquired with such a childish mournfulness that I nearly laughed aloud.

"For now, yes, Doctor; I am running out of disguises," I answered with a smile. "Besides, I believe…yes, I can hear Mrs. Hudson with luncheon. And I suggest you be enthusiastic if you do not want her flapping about to rag you regarding not eating breakfast."

"Oh dear…" he glanced warily at the door, heaving himself painfully to his feet. With an expression of pain, he swayed for a moment before steadying himself on the mantel and then slowly moving toward the table.

A booming peal of thunder rattled the windows just as the door opened to admit our landlady with a soup tureen and a plate of sandwiches. The combination of both the thunder and the door slamming against the wall were sufficiently jarring to _me_, and I had steady nerves – the Doctor jumped, taken off-guard, and lost his balance. I intuitively cringed as he teetered unsteadily, scrambling for a handhold on the nearby desk (for there was no possible way I could get over there in time) but he righted himself on his own, straightening his coat afterwards and stalking proudly to his seat without a word.

I followed suit after tossing my disguise onto the floor outside my bedroom door, and after the standard maternal admonishment to "finish off that plate of sandwiches" from Mrs. Hudson the good woman took herself off downstairs and left us to our task.

I was pleased to note that apparently my fellow-lodger's appetite had returned over the course of the morning, for I was forced to snatch a second sandwich before he devoured the last one. The rain appeared to still be pouring down in sheets, the pounding upon the roof being rather loud in the stillness, and lightning occasionally flashed outside the windows.

I was therefore rather surprised to hear the bell ring just as we were finishing up luncheon. The Doctor glanced quizzically at me, and I shook my head.

"I am not expecting anyone…perhaps it's a client," I frowned, gulping the last of my water and tossing down my napkin. "Or else just someone for Mrs. Hudson – but in this weather?"

It appeared to be neither, for our landlady appeared a moment later to inform us that a Dr. James Acheson was here to see my companion. The Doctor looked slightly surprised but after a glance at me told Mrs. Hudson to show the fellow up.

"He's the chap I've been working with over in Paddington," he informed me as our landlady stacked the dishes on the tray. "I've no idea what he is doing here, though…"

"Shall I leave?"

"No, I doubt it will be necessary – he has got surgery in half an hour so I cannot see him staying long," he returned, moving his chair back from the table.

"Just the same…" I began dubiously, entirely not appreciating strange and random people invading our sitting room with no appointment (unless they were paying clients). I was cut off by the arrival of the chap in question, a small, nondescript individual with dark hair and a propensity for Italian cuisine and bird-watching.

"Terribly sorry to show up like this with no appointment, Watson, but I was in the area and needed to ask a favour," the little fellow ventured hastily upon entering. "I shan't take but five minutes."

"Quite all right," my companion replied with his usual good-naturedness. "Oh, Holmes, this is Dr. James Acheson – Atcheson, my friend Sherlock Holmes."

I was slightly taken aback, but out of the dictates of etiquette I neglected to point out that I was _not_ his friend, or anyone else's for that matter.

I merely pasted a smile upon my face and forced a greeting out before beating a hasty retreat to the fireside as they stood in the doorway indulging in what I believe is commonly termed "shop talk."

At least the little physician was true to his word, however, for within five minutes he was again away; I heard the sound of the cab pulling away with a loud splosh just before thunder rolled again in the distance somewhere.

"He's going out of the city next weekend, and wanted to know if I could take the practice for the entire day on Friday," the Doctor said excitedly, slowly limping over to the chair opposite mine. "That's a wonderful break for me!"

I nodded mechanically, my mind still uncomfortably reverting back to his introduction of me to the fellow…why the deuce did the man call me a _friend_? I mean, for the love of heaven, he has only known me for two months – hardly enough time to generate anything remotely similar to what most men term as a friendship.

Though the chap does strike me as the type to make instant friends wherever he goes with anyone he meets…yes, of course, no doubt that is it. He probably considers Stamford to be one too, by that same line of reasoning.

That is not so disconcerting, then.

But try as I might, I still could not tear my mind away from the conundrum (this is what happens when I have no case; the slightest mental aberration becomes fascinating) for long; and so after the Doctor had fallen asleep for a nap there in front of the fire, I sneaked over to his desk and retrieved his dictionary – there is nothing like the final authority to define a matter that mystifies a man.

Confound it, what good was a resource such as a dictionary if it gave a person more than one meaning for the same word? No less than four different definitions met my eyes as I found the entry…let us see…

_Friend, N. _

_1. A person attached to another by affection or feelings of regard. _Good Lord, no.

_2. A person who gives assistance; a patron, a supporter. _Medically speaking, I suppose, for he did force medicine down my throat when I was ill…

_3. A person who is on good terms with another; not a foe. _Hmph. At least I do not utterly despise the man as I do the inmates of Scotland Yard or my brother. Does that constitute good terms?

_4. A member of the same nation, party, etc. _Ah, _there_ we were. No doubt that was the meaning he intended; it makes perfect logical sense, as he is just back from the Second Afghan War – merely a political meaning, nothing more personal.

Good. I do not much like the idea of the other three.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully until late tonight, when after an hour of my dropping very clear and unmistakable hints about my occupation he _still_ refused to take the bait, blast the man. And he knew – he _knew_ I was giving him the opportunity; I left him multiple wide-open chances to ask the question and his infernally smug smirking told me full well that he knew _exactly_ what I was doing…and would not take the bait.

I was…_am_…thoroughly infuriated.

As in, about-to-beat-my-head-repeatedly-into-the-wall infuriated.

I do not appreciate being driven out of my mind.

Hence the magazine lying slap in front of his place at the table. Breakfast tomorrow morning no doubt will be a rather interesting affair.

* * *

(1.) _Scientia ipsa potentia est__ – in modern English, __knowledge is power__ (also the motto of Schoolhouse Rock, isn't it?). _

_Those of you who know your Canon know what March 4, tomorrow, is…_:)


	49. March 4, 1881

_March 4, 1881_

_6:25 p.m._

Well, this has most certainly been a day to remember for a long while to come, and not merely because it signified the end of our verbal sparring match – and the day's entertainment is nowhere near over yet as the last chapter has yet to unfold in this little drama Gregson has dragged me into.

It is not easy to scribble a journal entry in a moving cab, but I doubt I shall have opportunity to do so later if I am to spend the evening apprehending the man I am after; and this day's events are far too noteworthy to not write down in at least an abbreviated, if sporadic, fashion.

I was suitably shocked (I had only just begun my breakfast) when I could hear the Doctor banging about upstairs this morning. He was up extremely early, due no doubt to his early retirement the previous evening (that being due to the bottle of claret we emptied after dinner over our vocal fencing). I grinned and shoved the magazine a bit closer to his side of the table; and only just in time, for a moment later he appeared, looking rather out-of-sorts and grumpy (even for him – due no doubt to the early morning).

He gave the bell a firm yank to signify he wanted his breakfast (hmm, a bit testy this morning, obviously…perhaps this was not a good time…too late, he was moving toward the table now) and then sat across from me with the obligatory muttered "good-morning." I merely nodded and kept chewing on my toast, watching with eager amusement as his roving eyes at last lit upon the carefully-placed periodical.

He absently picked it up, leaning his chin into his free hand and idly beginning to read – no doubt the article I had marked would draw his attention as I intended it to. I slopped some more marmalade on my toast and watched his face, for the man has the most expressive and unguarded eyes I have ever seen in a fellow; now was no exception, and they were most informative as to his mental processes as he digested the information I had written.

I had counted three minutes and fifteen seconds by the time Mrs. Hudson appeared to lay his breakfast. Two more minutes and forty-seven seconds until his initial interest and approval had veered off into incredulous skepticism. I grinned and shoved the rest of my toast into my mouth as he finally gave an exclamation of disdain and tossed the thing back down to the table.

Whatever I had been expecting him to say about the article, I freely admit that "ineffable twaddle" was not exactly high on my list of possible verbal reactions – though it was deeply indicative and highly amusing.

I carefully repressed my amusement and continued to act as if I'd no idea to what he was referring. "What is?"

"This article," he replied, stabbing at it with his egg-spoon before turning his vigourous attentions to his breakfast. "It's smartly written…very smartly, actually; the writer's obviously highly intelligent and has an ear for a turn of phrase."

Well, _naturally_.

He then ruined that rather nice (if well-deserved) compliment by proceeding to state that it was the work of some impractical, lounging roustabout who had nothing better to do than sit in his armchair snug at home and spin fanciful theories about his fellow men.

If he only knew how much like a Scotland Yarder he sounded like just then!

"I should like to see him clapped in a third-class carriage on the Underground and asked to give the trades of all his fellow-passengers," he finally snorted, slicing up his bacon. "I would lay a thousand to one against him."

Yes, I had observed his slight propensity toward gambling…

"You would lose your money," I replied calmly, completely unoffended by his reaction and rather highly amused. He started and peered at me incredulously over a half-eaten piece of bacon, and I hastened to add, "As to the article, I wrote it myself."

Having neatly dropped that explosive upon the converse, I proceeded to refill my coffee-cup, butter another piece of toast, and wait patiently for him to stop choking on his bacon and stammer out a shocked (and slightly dubious) "You??"

I nodded nonchalantly. "Yes, I have a natural turn for both observation and deduction."

"Well, I _had_ noticed that," he retorted. "But…"

"Doctor, what you have read there and what appears to you to be the merest chimerical hobby is in actuality extremely practical for me – so much so that I depend upon it to pay my rent and board," I told him with an upturned eyebrow, waiting for him to take the bait.

This time, he did, without a moment's hesitation – so shocked was he. "You…do this for a living? What on earth _are_ you?" he asked at last, laying down his fork and staring at me in undisguised mystification.

Ah, beautiful directness at last, and he finally had yielded to that blasted curiousity. I proceeded to detail to him in rather fanciful terms exactly who and what I was, further informing him that I was a sort of court of last appeal for many troubled people.

"You remember that fellow Lestrade?" I inquired.

"The short chap, rat-faced, with the beady eyes?"

I nearly laughed outright at the brutally honest description, uttered without a trace of malice. "Yes, quite. He's a Scotland Yard detective, a high-ranking Inspector."

"Well I think you might have mentioned that when we met the last few times," my companion retorted in some irritation, no doubt chagrined at my carefully omitting that important fact from my introductions.

I merely grinned at his annoyance, which was fast fading into a sort of wary skepticism.

"You look rather doubtful, Doctor."

"Well…" he pondered dubiously, "I must confess to being slightly skeptical. You say you can usually solve these people's problems without leaving your rooms – and yet you are never at home."

"Quite true," I agreed. "Of late I have either been forced to get about and see things for myself or else I have not had a case at all and so have spent my time studying elsewhere in preparation for one. I assure you I am not putting you on, Doctor. For example, when we first met, I told you the blatantly obvious fact that you had been in Afghanistan. You appeared surprised."

"Well, you must admit it isn't the first thing _most_ men would say immediately following 'How do you do,' " he replied with a grin.

I laughed at his calm acceptance of my strange habits.

"Yes, I was startled rather. No doubt Stamford had told you," he added, finishing off the remaining piece of bacon.

"Nothing of the kind," I retorted on the instant. "I _knew_ you had been in Afghanistan."

"You'll pardon me if I remain unconvinced without proof." He smirked, eyeing both my article and me with equal parts interest and skepticism.

I rose to the occasion with more flair than I normally would utilize, fully employing my powers and appearing rather flamboyantly theatrical to his wondering eyes. Watching the man's honest cynicism fade slowly into an incredulous wide-eyed interest was reward enough for the last month's verbal sparring.

For a moment the Doctor pondered my explanation with his usual slowly methodical sense, and then he tapped his fork thoughtfully against his lips. "It is rather simple, now you explain it," he mused, but in a tone that obviously was not meant in a derogatory manner. "Though I doubt I could perform the same feat of logic despite knowing now how you did it."

I grinned at his obvious (if still a bit wary) admiration, only to be thoroughly disgusted when a moment later he compared me to two fictitious detectives – the nerve of the man! Comparing my scientific precision to a couple of figments of some author's overworked and overactive imagination?

We had a heated discussion on the matter; I was stupid enough to attack the sacred literature he so loved dearly, and the ensuing discussion ended with me pacing the floor and grousing about the dearth of problems upon which to work my powers and he standing in the window, quite miffed about my sacrificing his literary heroes on the altar of brutal honesty.

"I say, I wonder what that fellow wants," he observed suddenly, pointing out the window at a retired Marine sergeant who was ambling along the pavement, glancing up at the house-numbers.

I casually dropped the information of the man's former occupation, earning me an annoyed skeptical glance carefully concealed under a calmly disbelieving exteriour. Polite to a fault, the fellow is – it would have been _so_ much more fun had he insulted me over his disbelief of my accuracy.

To my surprise (and delight), the fellow showed up a minute later in the sitting room, with a letter for me. I recognised the starkly clear hand upon the envelope – entirely devoid of any extra curlicues or other points of interest; yes, definitely the unimaginative Inspector Tobias Gregson – and eagerly tore the note open, for the man only summoned me when he was entirely out of his depth (his normal state of being was merely _half_-out of it). This should be rather first-rate…

I barely, through my concentration in reading, heard the Doctor verifying my deduction about the sergeant and really only registered the fact when he broke into my thoughts (rather rudely) a moment later.

_If you are unable to come, I shall give you further details, and would esteem it a great kindness if –_

"How in the world did you deduce that?!" My reading concentration was shattered by the Doctor's incredulous voice.

"I have no time for trifles," I snapped automatically, thoroughly incensed that I had been interrupted not two lines from the end of the missive. Honestly.

I heard the subtle shifting of his weight as he stepped backwards a step in some surprise at my irritation; and I sighed, glancing up from the epistle resignedly. Yes, I supposed that was a bit over the top, even for me – the fellow had not meant to disturb me.

"Excuse my rudeness," I muttered reluctantly, for I very much despised apologising for anything (not that I ever had had cause to do so before now). "You broke the train of my thoughts."

"I'm sorry…I forgot you concentrate rather deeply," he replied with a rather embarrassed glance aimed carefully at the floor.

"To a fault," I agreed more amicably. "But perhaps it is as well. Can you really not see that the man was a retired sergeant of Marines?"

"No, I'm dashed if I can," he retorted with some interest.

I covered a yawn with the letter and endeavoured to formulate my rapid thought processes into more slow terminology that he could easily grasp the meaning of without having to dissect and detail every iota of information. I was surprised, and rather gratified, to see that his former skepticism had faded into surprise and something akin to admiration that shone obviously from his expressive eyes – and the man does not bestow praise or respect lightly, I have found.

"But…that's wonderful!" cried he enthusiastically.

To an untrained mind, no doubt; but welcome as the praise was, I did not want him thinking it was anything out of the ordinary. "Commonplace," I corrected with a smile. "But have a look at this, Doctor."

"Hmm?" He caught the letter I tossed to him and glanced over it whilst I leaned lazily on the wall, pondering what I had gathered from its contents. "Why…this is terrible!" he exclaimed after a cursory examination of the thing.

_Wonderful_ would have been the adjective my work-deprived mind would have chosen, but I merely agreed that it was slightly out of the ordinary. "Would you mind reading it aloud to me?" I inquired curiously.

He eyed me over the paper with some wariness. "I?"

"Yes, of course," I replied, perplexed by his reaction – did he think I was going to poke fun at his diction or something? "I concentrate better by hearing things than by reading them."

"Oh…well, of course, in that case," he replied amiably, stepping into the light of the window and beginning to read the thing aloud.

Such an avid reader and writer was almost certain to have quite good and clear enunciation and inflection, and I was not disappointed. After I had processed the note afresh I explained to him who Gregson was and how much fun it would be if both he and Lestrade were put on the case (someone at the Yard has a simply _breathtaking_ sense of humour).

I was vaguely aware that my companion was staring at me as if I had lost my sense, and an instant later was asking me if I desired him to order me a cab. To which I responded that I was barely interested, since Gregson was typically oblique in his letter and besides it was still rather wet out there and I had a concert to go to later…I did not want to catch a head cold...I would not get the accolades for the crime being solved anyway…

"But you just said to me that you have it in you to make your name famous – how the devil are you going to accomplish that if you do not even make an _effort_ to snag some of the credit for the case?" he pointed out sensibly.

Good point…but still…somehow I rather think I may not _ever_ become famous unless some periodical other than the government-biased newspapers begins to carry an account of my exploits.

Not a likely occurrence.

"Well, we may as well have a look; I can have a good laugh at them if nothing else." I grinned, thinking of that very entertaining scenario. "Come along, Doctor - get your hat."

Wait…why in blazes had I just…did I actually just _ask_ him to come along? On a business venture? A case? What was I thinking?

_Was_ I thinking?

"You…you want me to come?" he was questioning incredulously, and I jerked myself out of my uncomfortable thoughts back to the present. There was still time to say I misspoke…

I opened my mouth to wave the matter off, but the barely suppressed, absolute childish excitement radiating from him stayed my words. With this weather and his bad health it was not as if we could stay out all day – and I had that concert this afternoon to soothe my nerves afterwards if the effort of socializing drained my energy and patience. It would do no harm, and possibly him some good (for he was indeed dreadfully bored most days), to get out.

Besides, having someone actually appreciate and even _admire_ my methods was an entirely novel and not unwelcome sensation. And it would show the Yard that _someone_ with a brain actually appreciated my immense intelligence.

"Yes, if you've nothing better to do," I shot airily over my shoulder as I headed to the door to call a cab.

A half-hour later, after a foggy drive to No. 3, Lauriston Gardens, we were walking up the pavement to the house in question. I made a careful scrutiny of the ground, pavement, pathway, street, and the geography of the surrounding area, noticing with some amusement that the Doctor was eagerly following my eyes in every direction but with obvious limited success, judging from his mystified expression.

Gregson met us as we stepped past the constable guarding the entrance into the dingy hall.

"Hallo, Mr. Holmes – it is good of you to come," the chap cried effusively (_too_ effusively; he must have been wanting me to side with his opinion on the business and not Lestrade's). His eyes then lit on my companion, who was hanging back somewhat shyly behind me, and he turned an eyebrow disapprovingly toward me.

For some unaccountable reason (that I still cannot exactly put an explanation with) I bristled. "Gregson, this is my…" What _was_ he? "_…colleague_, Dr. John Watson," I stated emphatically, stepping back beside the Doctor. "Watson, Inspector Tobias Gregson of the Yard."

"How do you do, Inspector," my companion ventured a bit abashedly.

"Well…I suppose it's all right," the man muttered, looking dubiously at me.

"If it is _not_, I shall be more than happy to leave you and your beloved friend Lestrade to sort the mess out yourselves," I retorted calmly as the Doctor flushed in slight embarrassment.

"Oh, very well, Mr. Holmes," the man sighed, rubbing his temple absently – no doubt Lestrade was due the honour of being that headache's catalyst. "I have left everything untouched."

"Except for that," I snorted, gesturing over my shoulder as we moved back into the house. "If a herd of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess!"

I heard a small snicker of stifled amusement from the Doctor as he followed close on my heels. Gregson made some fabricated remark about leaving that part of the responsibility to Lestrade (no doubt), and I rolled my eyes as we reached the door of the murder room.

I was halfway through the door when I saw the body (and the blood-spattered room), and so I hastily turned to face my companion. "Doctor, I know you have probably seen worse in the War, but I warn you this isn't pleasant," I informed him.

True to his nature, the man merely nodded placidly, though the clenching of his jaw betrayed his tension as I turned and entered the room, him at my heels. My view of the corpse was suddenly obstructed by the little figure of Lestrade, who greeted me smartly and ventured a cheerful, if somewhat surprised, "G'morning, Doctor" to my companion.

Gregson eyed his colleague as if wondering how in the world Lestrade knew who Watson was but proceeded without delay to start the verbal process of trying to top Lestrade in his observations of the crime.

I left the Doctor to endeavour to sort out the two of them (bless his good-natured and patient heart) whilst I completely ignored all else but the body and the room for the next half-hour or more.

I will not here prolong this already too-lengthy entry with details of this exceedingly simple crime; suffice it to say from start to last those two bungling idiots were completely on the wrong track. I was hard pressed not to laugh aloud in Lestrade's face when he discovered the writing on the wall and eagerly hurried us all over to gaze upon his discovery.

He then launched exuberantly into his far-fetched explanation of a female named _Rachel_ being involved in the matter, thoroughly debating the matter with his colleague while the Doctor turned an incredulous look to me.

"I take it that the German language did not encompass a major part of his boyhood education?" he whispered in my ear.

I choked back a burst of laughter, as the little fellow was looking at us both with some annoyance, his face flushed with irritation at our amusement.

I attempted (halfheartedly, I admit) to placate the poor Inspector before making a further examination of the room, making my final deductions and then turning with an air of finality to the two officials, who were watching me with considerably less interest and respect than the Doctor was obviously doing.

"Well, what do you think of it, Mr. Holmes?" chirped the Yarders in unison.

"Oh, it would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I were to presume to help you – you are both doing so, so _very_ well together."

The Doctor suddenly launched into an abrupt coughing fit, while the two officials glared at me with some hostility that at least no longer was directed at each other.

I rattled off a spiel of my deductions (the more pertinent ones, as they would have absolutely no idea the importance of the more subtle inferences) regarding the fellow they were (or were supposed to be) after, informed the chagrined Lestrade that _Rache_ was the German word for _revenge_, and tugged the Doctor after me into the foggy early afternoon to hail a passing cab.

During the drive to see Constable John Rance the Doctor at once began firing an incessant barrage of eager questions at me, even going so far as to scribble down a few points of interest on his ever-present notepad. I explained in greater detail (and with considerably less antagonism) than I had to the Yarders my points to him, and he nodded meditatively, occasionally interjecting a small comment, such as that he noticed that the _A_ in the supposedly German word was not written in the Latin character.

I nodded approvingly. "Quite so. It is merely a blind – not that the officials need any more of such as they are already thoroughly in a muddle."

He grinned at my irreverence and opened his mouth for yet another question, but I held up an imperious hand.

"I'm not going to tell you any more, Doctor," I dictated firmly.

"Whyever not?" he asked, a trifle miffed.

"Because you know a magician gets no applause or credit for his legerdemain when once it is explained to the audience. If I keep on in this manner you will soon find that I am a very ordinary individual after all."

"No, never," he answered earnestly. "You have brought detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world."

I squirmed in a tiny bit of odd embarrassment on the cab seat, a rather unusual sensation of warmth spreading over me (which was not in the least logical, as it was wet and chilly and foggy outside – perhaps I am catching cold).

I was right in my earlier perception of the fellow – he _is_ highly intelligent, to so recognise genius when he sees it.

"Well…I shall tell you one more thing," I relented at last, eliciting a sly grin from my companion. Was he actually _wheedling_ me? And had I _fallen_ for it?

"One more thing" turned into four or five, and subsequently into everything else that I knew or supposed about the man, and it was with some surprise that I found we had already arrived at the dingy residence of P.C. Rance.

The man himself was a colossal idiot, and the memory of that interview is so thoroughly frustrating that I shall not here reproduce it. I was rather annoyed by the time we reached the Baker Street flat again, and in consequence was halfway up the stairs before my preoccupied and irritated mind registered that the Doctor was moving exceptionally slow, and his intense energy of the morning was obviously fast fading.

I went into my room to freshen up my attire before the concert (the final fruits of my reward money) but kept one ear pricked toward the stairs and then the sitting room to make sure he did not collapse before reaching the settee. Thus reassured, I banged about trying to locate my newest and shiniest walking-stick (I had used it to root out my slippers from behind the dresser a day or so ago and could not remember where I had flung it afterwards) for a good ten minutes before entering the sitting room to refill my cigarette-case.

I found the Doctor reclining with his feet up on the couch, idly scribbling in the same pocket notebook he had been writing in a bit earlier, but his hand was so much slower than his typical quick scrawl that it was blatantly obvious that the morning had thoroughly exhausted him.

As I had plans for both of us this evening, I felt it only decent to nudge him to be prepared for the fact physically.

"I would suggest you ring for some luncheon, Doctor, and then get a few hours' sleep; for this affair may turn up again later in the evening and heaven only knows exactly when," I stated casually, in such a way that would not seem to him as if I were insulting his stamina.

He with evident weariness glanced up, his energy of earlier obviously vanished by this point. "Rather a good idea, I believe," he agreed, covering a yawn with his journal. "You off to the concert?"

"Yes, quite. I shall be back for supper," I called over my shoulder as I opened the door and then closed it behind me, making sure not to slam the thing as was my habit.

The concert was splendid, superb, magnificent – the most wonderful way to spend an afternoon that I have had the pleasure of in several weeks. My work afterwards was rather tedious but extremely necessary, and I have put into motion a plan that I am certain will net us our man tonight.

Hence trying to haphazardly scribble this long-winded entry while in a moving cab. We have just reached the end of Baker Street and so I shall here end this.

More tomorrow – no doubt news of this Lauriston Garden murderer's capture, if he walks into my trap, baited with a wedding-ring, in just a couple of hours...


	50. March 5, 1881

_March 5, 1881_

_2:10 a.m._

An hour of (rather dissonant even to my ears) improvisation on my Stradivarius has done absolutely nothing to assist in the lifting of my mood. Though the incident of the night is both highly amusing and instructive, and though I know full well I shall have the man (failure in this supremely unproblematic case is out of the question for me), my credulity of the evening still is rather a blow to my ego. I had thought that by now I should be composing a gloating telegram to Lestrade and Co. and collecting my well-earned fee from Gregson.

But to begin where I last left off this narrative:

Dinner had been laid by the hour I arrived home after an afternoon well-spent, and I lost no time in throwing my coat into the hall and joining the Doctor in the meal. I was still floating upon my exhilarating cloud from the matchless concert, and in consequence bubbled onward about it the instant I had seated myself.

Contrary to the Doctor's belief, I am cognizant of contemporary literature _if_ it suits my line of work or interest, and so I believe I startled him rather by quoting Darwin's opinion of music – for it is indeed the universal language, and I believe him to be quite right in that particular hypothesis.

My fellow-lodger's response was to pause in salting his greens to glance skeptically at me. "That's rather a broad idea," said he disbelievingly.

"Well, one's ideas must be as broad as nature if one is to interpret nature," I retorted, for I was in a thoroughly pleasant humour and also in the mood for as good an argument.

The Doctor made no return, however, to my playful prodding, and the subject dropped like a weighted overcoat to drown upon the floor. I frowned, my thrilled elation dissipating slowly, and my jubilation was replaced by the observation that he obviously had not taken my advice (or else had been unable to take it) and get some rest; for he looked even more tired than he had when I had left the house.

However he was fully accustomed to dealing with fatigue; this strange, preoccupied look in his eyes bespoke of some deeper problem than mere exhaustion. For some reason the fact disturbed me, prodding at my mind until I drew a deep breath and decided to silence the nagging voice of what I could only suppose was a derelict conscience.

"What's the matter?" I asked the question quietly, in the tone I would use to draw out a client who did not wish to speak freely.

He started, his mind obviously having been elsewhere, and glanced up at me in the beginnings of defensive embarrassment. Oh, _please_. This was not the time for prideful foolishness.

"Come, come. You're not looking quite yourself, and it takes no great powers of deduction to see that," I added smoothly, staving off his obligatory "nothing" before it left his lips. "This Brixton Road affair has upset you." I stated it as fact, not inquiry, to further discontinue any protests to the contrary.

He sighed resignedly before nodding, looking at me with a strangely troubled expression that unnerved me, as I had never seen it before upon his countenance. "To tell you the truth, it has," he admitted slowly. "I ought to be more case-hardened after Afghanistan…saw my own companions hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my nerve. But this…"

He trailed off, not noticing the chill that had swept over me at the casual, matter-of-fact reference he made to viewing with regularity greater atrocities than I had ever, and might ever, see in my chequered career. _Hacked to pieces_ was a rather…_vivid_ description, the horror of which I had not fully grasped until he spoke.

I suppressed the shiver that threatened to give me away and merely nodded sympathetically. "I can understand. Mystery stimulates the imagination, and imagination reigning freely can share its rule with horror."

"Well-put," he interjected quietly.

I shifted uncomfortably, not quite certain where to take the conversation after this (besides to ask him to pass the pepper), and in lieu of knowing what to do I decided abrupt change would be the wisest course of action. Judging from the relieved sigh that was released in unison from both of us, I had made the correct choice.

"Have you seen the evening papers?"

"No. More vegetables?"

"Yes, thank you. They give a rather good account of the affair but neglect to mention the wedding-ring, which is as well. Take a look at this."

I tilted my chair backwards on its hind legs to retrieve the folded paper I had tossed upon the sideboard upon entering, found the advertisement, and tossed it over to him. He swallowed his mouthful of veal and then scanned it, his eyes flitting rapidly over the printed words.

"Excuse my using your name," I hastened to say. "If I used my own, some of these dunderheads might recognise it and meddle in the affair."

I waited to see if my calculations of his nature were correct (he is not the only gambler in this establishment, for I was wagering a comfortable evening on his not minding my precipitation in using his name and not my own) and was pleased to find I had not been amiss in my reckoning (as if I could be).

"Oh, that's all right," he agreed amicably, and not without excitement at my including him in the drama unfolding. "But…supposing someone comes for it; I have no ring."

"Oh, yes, you have," I replied smugly, handing over a small gold ring I had purchased from a pawnbroker's on my way home (which price I might just add to Gregson's fee under _miscellaneous expenses_). "This is almost a facsimile."

He took it, weighed it and examined it, and finally agreed with me on its being suitable for the task. We then discussed the matter at length, ending with my finishing the meal with gusto and informing the fellow that he would see his quarry within the hour.

"But what am I to do with him, when he does come?" he asked, somewhat embarrassedly. "I shan't be much use if he puts up a dangerous fight."

"I shall be here, and you may leave me to deal with him," I replied carelessly. "Have you any arms?" I could not remember exactly where I had put my Eley's…I hoped it had not fallen into the furniture again, but we had no time now to locate it.

"I have my service revolver and a few cartridges," he replied instantly.

"Clean it and load it, then. He is a desperate man, and though I shall take him by surprise it would be as well to have a steady hand on a trigger in case of a struggle."

"Now _that_ I believe I can manage," he answered with a smile, rising somewhat unsteadily from his chair and starting for the door.

I rubbed my hands together in some eagerness (this time tomorrow I should be crowing about my victory to those clueless Yarders!) and rang for Mrs. Hudson to clear the dishes. The good woman promptly appeared with a telegram for me and began to stack the plates on the tray as I ripped the envelope open and grinned triumphantly at its contents. I then folded myself into my armchair and began scraping on my violin, not even realising what I was doing until the Doctor reappeared and winced at a particularly odd chord.

"The plot thickens," I remarked as he entered, dangling my information tantalizingly in front of him. "I have had an answer to my telegram – my conclusions were quite correct, as I knew they would be."

"And those conclusions are?" he asked eagerly, seating himself opposite me and setting the large handgun on his knee.

"My violin needs new strings," I mused aloud, purposely ignoring him.

"Holmes!"

"Put your pistol in your pocket now, Doctor," I went on in a more serious tone. As he did so I placed the instrument aside and leant forward. "When he arrives, speak to him in an ordinary way, and do not frighten him off by looking too hard at him no matter what he says or does. And do not keep glancing toward me; just act in a perfectly normal manner and I shall step in at the suitable time."

He nodded gravely, though he seemed a trifle nervous. If he kept looking like that he would give the entire show away – the man is far too honest for this line of work, but we had no other recourse now. Distraction was necessary to steady his nerve, obviously.

"Good. Then open the door slightly, Doctor," I directed, reaching behind me for a book. "And leave the key on the inside," I called over as he obeyed my directions, looking back at me for approval. "Thank you. Now we shall be ready for him when he arrives shortly. Take a look at this book, Doctor."

I tossed the volume over to him as he sat down once more, and he scanned it with some amusement at my abrupt topic change. "I love old books," he ventured admiringly, opening the cover and examining it.

"Yes, so I observed," I replied dryly.

"Who the devil was this fellow, William Whyte?"

"I've absolutely no idea."

"You mean you cannot deduce anything about the owner?" he inquired with a hint of teasing.

"Watson, even _I_ cannot tell much from a volume that has changed hands heaven only knows how many times since its printing in _1642_," I retorted. "Some pragmatical lawyer chap, I fancy. His writing has a legal twist about it. Ah, that is in all likelihood our man now."

The Doctor jerked his head up abruptly, putting the volume aside and listening as I was doing. After we heard the door below open, I arose and went to the sitting-room doorway to listen and draw my conclusions about the man we were after…only to be rather disconcerted by the sound of steps in the passage; they certainly were not those of a strong and active man as I had deduced this murderer to be.

My dismay only increased as the drama unfolded before us to reveal an elderly woman who to all appearances was as maternally honest as they come. I was not so taken in to believe the old crone's story, however, and lost no time in snatching my ulster, barely explaining matters to my astonished colleague, and rushing out after the woman when once she had departed.

I am not fond of perching on the back of cabs, especially upon four-wheelers, but I did need the practice in the art and so the evening was not _entirely_ wasted. That bit of practice was the _only_ bit of the evening that was instructive or productive, however; as the actor, whoever he was, gave me the slip so very efficiently (a beginner's mistake, over which I am still seething).

I returned to the house, very warily for I knew how jumpy my fellow-lodger could be; I had no desire to find myself on the receiving end of that large army-issue revolver were I to barge into the sitting room in my normal slapdash manner. I was pleased to discover that he was still awake, though from the looks of his sleepy countenance it evidently had been a struggle due to his sheer weariness.

He set aside his pipe when I cautiously entered, sitting up straighter and looking expectantly at me. "Well?!"

I glared ruefully at his excitement for a moment, before the unmitigated hilarity of the thing washed over me, and I collapsed laughing into my chair opposite him.

"Holmes, come! Tell me what happened!" he demanded eagerly, leaning forward and giving me his exclusive attention.

I grinned and began to advise him of all that had occurred, omitting no detail (even those pertinent to my own failure), and watched as his facial expressions went from excited to incredulous to disbelieving in rapid-fire succession.

"You mean that feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab without either you or the driver seeing her?" he cried when I had done.

"Old woman be damned!" I retorted. "_We_ were the old women to be so taken in by the act! It must have been a man, and a young and active one, besides being a brilliant enough actor to be able to deceive a trained observer such as I."

"Oh, dear…what will you do now?"

"Nothing until morning," I sighed, a final ripple of low laughter running through me for one last moment. My amusement faded slightly when I observed that my companion was looking rather as if he would keel over at any second, now that the adrenaline and excitement had worn away.

"Now, Doctor," I remarked quietly. "You are looking rather done-up, and it is well past midnight. I would advise you to turn in before you fall over."

My tone could not be taken as anything save gentle teasing, and as such he was not offended by my words but merely yawned ruefully in agreement. "Yes, indeed," he murmured, staggering to his feet.

He was at the door before he turned back toward me. I cocked an eyebrow questioningly at him.

"You are quite certain you shan't do anything else on the case tonight?"

I laughed at his eagerness, despite the obvious exhaustion that threatened to take him down where he stood. "Quite sure. I shall not move from this chair, I promise you."

"Not healthy to be up all night, you know," he muttered sleepily, giving me a courtesy nod and stumbling off in the direction of the second flight of stairs.

I counted them, to satisfy myself that he reached the top without mishap, before retrieving my violin once more and beginning to scrape aimlessly for a while, endeavouring to decide the best course of action now that the easiest method of capturing the man had fallen through so utterly.

And after forty-five minutes of Beethoven I have come to a conclusion at last. I shall send round for Wiggins and his lads in the morning, and no doubt by tomorrow evening I shall have had the solution to this most remarkable little study.


	51. March 5, 1881 II

_I probably should state the obvious - that any and all lines you have or will recognise(d) from STUD are, of course, not mine, and a good many have been paraphrased in this story._

* * *

_March 5, 1881_

_7:10 p.m._

This has been a monumental day in the annals of my career, and so packed-full was the period of time with events and rapid happenings that I probably shall not be able to get this all down in one entry. To begin from the beginning, then:

The Doctor had, unpredictably, risen early again (no doubt due to excitement over this diversion from his monotonous existence) and I met him at the breakfast table after scampering down into the hall to retrieve the morning papers; I simply could not _wait_ to see what a pretty hash they had made of the affair.

My atypically cheerful and good-humoured greeting to my companion was met with a more subdued expression that made me instantly sit opposite him and direct an inquiring look toward him as he shoved the coffee-pot in my direction.

"What is it?"

The Doctor shifted in some discomfort, and not that of a physical nature. "It's…well, nothing really…rather silly…" he mumbled, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"Obviously it is not, if it has made you so distressed that you have not yet made an inroad on Mrs. Hudson's curried chicken, which I have already deduced is one of your favourites," I pointed out, pointing with my butter-knife at his hitherto-untouched plate.

"Well…it really is silly, I mean…" He trailed off, poking moodily at his food, and then glanced up at my expectant face. Thus apparently encouraged, he finally continued. "Well it's just that…you know that little terrier that Mrs. Hudson has below stairs?"

"The one that tried to chew up my galoshes the second week we took up residence here?"

"Yes, that's the little chap. The poor old thing has been so ill…dying, really…and…and she asked me last night before you got back from the concert if I would…" He gulped slightly and poked again at his food, and it was no mental feat to make the leap to the correct conclusion.

"She wants you to put the little devil out of its misery, is that it?" I asked, stirring some sugar into my coffee.

He nodded miserably.

"And you can't, or won't?"

His embarrassment obviously magnified as he fidgeted with his fork. "I didn't want to do it yesterday, and she asked me again this morning. Why the deuce can't I just give the poor thing an injection? Heaven knows I've seen enough death in the War to last me several lifetimes – and far more violent than that would be. Why am I baulking at such a petty act?"

I set down my cup and looked at him in some surprise, for the poor fellow looked so confused that it was almost endearingly amusing.

"There is nothing abnormal about a man of mercy not desiring to kill something, Doctor – soldier or no," I ventured sensibly.

"Perhaps that's it," he breathed in relief, his brow clearing at my words. "I suppose it's just that…I have never killed anything before except in self-defense. I am just being ridiculous about the entire matter, am I not?" he finally finished in a self-deprecatory tone.

I nearly laughed but prevented myself from doing so out of tact (what little I possess; and I _do_ possess some, despite what Scotland Yard believes, I merely do not bother to mete it out to undeserving mortals). This fellow really is a fascinating study in enigmatic human complexity.

"No, Doctor, I do not consider it to be ridiculous in the least," I responded, tossing a newspaper at him. "Why don't you attempt to forget about the dog for a moment, and have a look at these – they are positively _glowing_ with turgid news of our friends, Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson."

"Oh?" he asked eagerly, obviously keen to turn the conversation around into a more cheerful channel.

"Good heavens, yes," I said with a stifled laugh. I weighted down the edges of my newspaper with the jam-pot and my unused spoon. "The _Daily Telegraph_ is most eloquent on the fact that German anarchists are responsible."

"Erm…the murdered chap was _American_," my companion pointed out blankly.

"Quite so, but that makes no difference to the papers – no doubt the Socialists have a branch or several in America and this was a man who fell afoul of its leaders," I snorted with a grin. "After alluding to the Vehmgericht, _aqua tofana_, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the article concludes by admonishing the Government and advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England."

The Doctor chose the wrong time to take a drink and consequently nearly drowned to death on his coffee. "Lovely," he finally gasped when he could speak again. "The _Standard _here solely blames the Government for the affair, saying it is entirely society's fault that these things happen in the first place, and ends with…where was it…ah, _'We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it is confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily throw light upon the matter_.'"

"They will throw about as much light as an unlit Roman candle on a dark Bonfire Night," I snorted.

My friend laughed outright at my cynicism. "What does that one say?" he queried.

"Mm…it takes pleasure in telling the populace just how the investigation _ought_ to proceed if the writer of the article were the police," I snorted.

"What?"

"Here, see for yourself," I said, pointing to the article in question with one hand and snatching the last piece of toast with the other whilst he was occupied in moving his chair closer to mine to read the paper in question.

"'…_the discovery of the address of the house at which he had boarded -- a result which was entirely due to the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard._'," he read aloud. "Acuteness and energy?"

"Mm, he is certainly energetic enough, though about as acute as a one-hundred-fifteen-degree angle," I pondered, scanning the rest of the article over Watson's elbow. "I would give a sovereign to be able to see Lestrade's face when he sees _that_ literary feather in Gregson's cap."

The Doctor grinned and went back to annihilating his chicken.

"I told you, whatever happened, those two would be sure to score," I said, round my toast, shrugging and tossing the papers over my shoulder toward the window.

"That depends on how it turns out," he replied, offering me the last of the chicken.

I shook my head in answer both to the gesture and his words. "It doesn't matter in the least, my dear chap. If the man is apprehended, it will be _thanks_ _to_ their efforts; and if he is not, it will be that he escaped _despite_ their efforts. I have seen the process transpire dozens of times, Doctor."

"But that is hardly – I say, what the devil?" he gasped, as a sudden small thundering of little feet pattered on the stairs and in the hall, accompanied by an all-too-familiar wail of dismay from our landlady.

"It is the Baker Street division of the detective force," I told him solemnly. I felt my face crease with a grin as his eyes grew wide in interest.

That look promptly changed to one of dumbfounded shock when the door slammed open to admit a half-dozen ragged street urchins, all clamouring for notice.

"Here now!" I shouted over the bedlam. "'Tention!"

The lads instantly fell back into a semi-neat line as trained to by me, and in my peripheral vision I saw the soldier's eyebrows go up at least three inches. Out of the corner of my other eye I perceived Bert sniggering and waving at my companion before his fellow urchin elbowed him sharply, causing him to straighten up with a rude gesture.

"Wiggins, this will never do," I said sternly. "In future you shall come up alone to report, and you others shall wait below, is that clear?"

There were varying stages and pitches of affirmation among the ranks, broken by Bert's whisper to ask the Doctor if he could have a biscuit.

The soft-hearted fool gave him one and was promptly set upon by the others, and it took me a good five minutes to restore order once again to the ensuing chaos. By that time the biscuit platter and the sugar bowl had been mysteriously emptied, and I was hard pressed not to give them all (including the Doctor) a good swatting.

"Now, report. Have you found it yet, Wiggins?"

"No, sir, we hain't," the lad said, shrugging his dirty shoulders.

"Then you must keep at it until you do. Here are your wages, and now scarper, the lot of you. Wait a bit, young fellow!" I rubbed my head wearily with one hand and reached out with the other to firmly collar one of the scalawags.

"Give it back, laddie, or I shan't be using you for a job ever, do you hear me?" I chastised the boy sternly, receiving an only slightly repentant look from him as he reluctantly fished out the Doctor's watch from a ragged pocket. "You are not to nick anything from this gentleman ever again if you wish to remain in my employ, you understand?"

"Yessir," the lad muttered grudgingly, wriggling free of my grip and hurrying down the steps to join his fellows.

I turned round to see the Doctor feeling his now-empty pocket in chagrin and looking at me in some amazement.

"What on earth…"

"Do not ever allow a street urchin to bump you, whether in a crowded street or otherwise, Doctor," I chided him, setting the modest timepiece back on the table. "That is another item you must remember if you plan to continue living safely in London."

"Thank you," he muttered, scowling and replacing the watch safely in his pocket.

We finished our breakfast, or tried to – for we were interrupted by the whirlwind arrival of a very enthused Inspector Gregson, who pounced upon me the moment he had burst into the room, bellowing that he had solved the case at last.

The odds of _that_ end result being accurate were stacked enormously high against the man, but just the same I remained slightly uneasy until he had explained in his usual pompous and exuberant manner that he was on the completely wrong scent, and had even arrested an innocent man for the crime. True to form, at least.

After the usual courtesies, Gregson plopped his person down in the Doctor's chair (I was about to make the man move but apparently my companion was not put-out by it and merely seated himself beside me on the couch, leaning forward in his interest to hear the tale) and began to spin his long-winded and extremely irrelevant account of the Charpentier family's little domestic melodrama.

I nodded where appropriate and interjected the occasional "Dear me!" that his words warranted, and finally (I was nearly falling asleep by this juncture) he had reached what he obviously regarded as a crucial point in the story.

"I made shorthand notes of all that Madame Charpentier said, so that there can be absolutely no mistaking the facts!" said he enthusiastically.

"Yes, it is all very exciting," I drawled, stifling a yawn behind my hand.

I received for my breach of etiquette a strong elbow in the ribs from the man sitting beside me, along with a reproving glare for my lack of patience with the blundering official.

I scowled at the Doctor and contented myself with sighing impatiently toward the Inspector. "What did you do then, Gregson?"

What he did then is of absolutely no importance, as it had nothing whatever to do with the case and by that point we had heard too much of a tiresome thing; and I shall bore neither myself nor any snooping person who might ever happen to chance upon this diary with here scribbling the story's lurid details.

The conversation (and tension in the room) perked up quite a bit with the arrival of Inspector Lestrade, with the news that the secretary, Joseph Stangerson, had been murdered in Halliday's Private Hotel in the Strand. A lovely addendum to the crime.

Lestrade took possession of my armchair and proceeded to inform us of the method and description of both the murder and the murderer, or whom they supposed was the murderer.

I cared nothing for either; I already knew who my man was and what his appearance was. The only missing link in my clear chain of logic was the actual specific method of murder. I had my suspicions, and fairly certain ones, but corroborating proof would have been wonderfully satisfying to my conclusion.

None of the others quite understood my elation, consequently, when I positively leapt from my seat in my excitement at Lestrade's mention of the pills I had suspected all along in the first murder. The feeling of the last piece of the puzzle falling neatly into place to make a perfect masterpiece is undoubtedly one of the most thrilling in the world. I _live_ for such moments.

Lestrade reluctantly handed over the pills, casting a dubious look at his colleague, who only shrugged grouchily. I took the box, glanced at its contents, and then turned to my companion beside me.

"Now, Doctor," I prompted him, giving him a chance to show superiour knowledge over the officials across from us (not that that was any great mental feat). "Are these ordinary pills?"

He took one of them from the small box, examined it closely, and held it to the light before replacing it in the box I held and looking back to meet my eyes. "Certainly not," he declared positively. "From their lightness and transparency, I would say they are soluble in water."

"Precisely so," I affirmed gleefully. Then I dropped my voice to a less exuberant tone. "Now, Doctor, if you would be so kind as to fetch that poor little devil of a terrier that our landlady wished you to put out of its painful existence yesterday…" I ended with a gentle verbal nudge.

His eyes contracted sharply in obvious thought, and then he glanced back at the pills I held before looking back at my eyes. No doubt the full extent of their implication had not exactly occurred to him, but I could read in his expression that he knew I would be taking care of the poor little devil for him and proving some point to the police at the same time.

He nodded and left the room slowly, returning in a few minutes with the wretched dog held carefully in his arms. Personally I believed from the sight of its drooping eyes and obvious age that it was already mostly unaware of anything taking place around it, but the man appears to have a kinder heart than most people of my acquaintance (limited though that category is). He carefully placed a cushion on the floor between the two curious Inspectors and set the dog gently on it, finally giving it a pat and going back to his position on the settee.

"Now, I shall cut one of these pills in two," said I, rummaging through my desk for my pen-knife.

"You can't destroy police evidence, Mr. Holmes!"

"Inspector, I am certain that is the reason he is cutting it in halves," the Doctor interjected placatingly before I was able to. "No doubt the other half will go straight back into the box."

"Quite so," I agreed, very pleased with his calming the troubled sea of Lestrade's enthusiasm. "Now, to place the pill in this glass containing a teaspoon of water…and you see, gentlemen, that the Doctor was quite correct and it has now dissolved completely."

Lestrade voiced some typically ridiculous protest about fanciful theories not apprehending any murderers, which I promptly ignored and merely mixed a bit of milk from the breakfast table into the glass, and then turned the whole contents into a saucer which I knelt and put before the unfortunate dog.

I saw the Doctor tense and stiffen, anticipating what was to happen, and the two Yarders glared at each other over my head as if to ask which of them wanted to be the first to ask what in blazes I thought I was doing.

Neither of them was brave (or foolish) enough to try such a thing, but as the seconds ticked onward with no reaction from the blasted dog I began to grow very warm and uncomfortable. The Doctor met my gaze questioningly and with sympathy as I looked up from my watch for the fifth time, biting my lip in absolute angry bewilderment – what on earth had gone wrong??

I barely registered Gregson's supercilious smirk as I flung myself to my feet, pacing crossly up and down the room and muttering to myself, trying to go through my entire chain of logic aloud in an effort to find what vital factor I had somehow overlooked.

Then finally, as if a bolt of lightning had suddenly struck me squarely in the brain, an electric shock passed through me as I realised the missing link. Of course – I was not incorrect, I _never_ am!

I cried out in my delight and hastily performed the same dissection, dilution, and administration of the second pill to the poor canine lying upon the rug. Said dog had barely begun to lap halfheartedly at the milky solution when it gave one convulsive shiver and lay perfectly still, its laboured breathing ceasing on the instant.

The Doctor turned a not entirely astonished, more eager, eye to me, whilst the two Yarders stared agape at the dead terrier. I only realised I had been holding my breath when I suddenly felt rather limp and let it out with a long sigh, mopping my forehead after my unexpected attack of nervous doubt.

"I should have more faith in my conclusions," I breathed. "Of the two pills, one was of a most deadly poison and the other completely harmless. I should have seen that before I ever laid eyes upon the things at all."

I then began to detail in stark clarity exactly what the officials had done and should not have, and what they failed to do and should have, to come to the correct conclusions as I had done.

They (of course) failed to appreciate my advising them and merely ignored my helpful instruction in favour of berating me to tell them all I knew of the business, who the murderer was, and where they could lay their hands upon him, etc., etc.

As I obviously had no intention of allowing them to interfere with my well-laid plans concerning the Baker Street Irregulars, I refused to give them the information they sought; which thoroughly incensed the two officials and both amused and exasperated the more patient Doctor.

We were interrupted before they could through due process of law extort the information from me, by the arrival of my little lieutenant Wiggins with the news for which I had been waiting.

Said news will have to wait in its own turn to be here depicted, as Mrs. Hudson is setting dinner out upon the table just now and I have an absolutely voracious appetite after the events of this day.


	52. March 6, 1881

_March 6, 1881_

_7:45 a.m._

I awakened rather early this morning, which is surprising considering the fact that the Doctor and I were up half the night discussing this extraordinary case of ours. I have only just received a note from Gregson (he conveniently neglected to include his fee in it, for which I shall have to chase him down today) to inform me that our American criminal, Mr. Jefferson Hope, has answered to a higher court than the magistrate for his crimes, whatever they may be considered to be by law.

I cannot say I am regretful that the courts are not forced to make the difficult decision as to his being in the right or wrong in this particular affair – I am no romantic by any means but my innate sense of conscience (whatever that may be) and justice is dubious of the verdict, and the jury of my mind still out on the matter.

The Doctor was of the opinion that Drebber and Stangerson deserved what they got, but that the matter should have been followed through due process of law; the reaction I had of course expected of him. But upon my pointing out that the law could not actually legally touch the two men for what they did, I believe I threw a wrench into the workings of his intricate mind for he became rather morosely pensive, as if debating his own sense of justice.

Fascinating after-dinner talk that was.

But I digress from my narrative, in which I am attempting to place the order of events in a logical sequence. To pick up where I left off yesterday, then:

Gregson had turned a fiery red that contrasted beautifully with his light hair as I pointed out that the force was all but inept in capturing this fellow and I was not about to turn over my information on the chap to him or anyone else until I thought the time to be right. Lestrade was glaring at me in that famous (or infamous) black glower that every sergeant in the Yard feared but which fortunately had absolutely no effect upon me whatsoever (how could it, when I am accustomed to braving worse ones from Mrs. Hudson and even more ugly ones from my former landlady?).

I was debating what exactly to do with the incensed officials when, fortuitously enough, my ragged lieutenant pattered up the steps to inform me that my cab-man was waiting outside. Hah!

"Good boy, Wiggins!" I cried in my exultation – now for the grand finale, the climax of the drama. I wondered what the Doctor would say when I revealed the culprit in such a theatrical flourish.

I reached into my left desk drawer and fished out a pair of handcuffs, of a European design that I found long ago to be much sturdier than the average bobby's derbies; these were the ones upon which I practised releasing myself from them, for if I could get out of these manacles then any other design I knew of would be so much child's play to release.

"Why don't you introduce this pattern at the Yard, Lestrade? See, they fasten in an instant – quite superiour to your standard issue," I informed the man, demonstrating the shackles upon my own wrist and then releasing it.

"The old model is quite good enough, thank you," the little fellow groused impatiently, "if we can only find the right chap to fit them."

"Very well," I returned absently, not listening in the least to the man (as was my custom, to prevent my going mad in his or any other idiot's company). "Wiggins, ask the cabbie to step up and help me with my bags – and bring the lads by tonight for their final day's wages."

"Yessir." The lad bobbed his head in obedience and bounded down the stairs.

"What bags?" the Doctor inquired curiously. "You didn't say anything to me about going on a trip."

I believe at that point Lestrade made some sarcastic remark about how peaceful and pleasant it would be around the Yard with me absent for a while; I could not be certain as I was hauling a portmanteau from under my desk at the same time as his nattering. The Doctor shot the ratty official a very annoyed look before turning his attention expectantly back to me, his sharp eyes fairly afire with curiousity.

"Just watch," I told him with a grin, bending down to strap up the box and carefully concealing the derbies under my knee as I bent there.

I heard the door open, and without looking up I requested the aid of the man I sought, Jefferson Hope. I felt my heart pounding in anticipation as the tension increased in my mind…he grumbled a guttural reply and moved closer to me…closer…closer…he put his hands down to strap up the box…

…and I snapped the handcuffs shut on both wrists in one clean motion before jumping to my feet, my voice ringing with the elated euphoria of triumph.

"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson!" I fairly shouted in my glee at having brought the drama to a roaring climax, and one worthy of my skill and the case's drama.

I had a vague recollection of Gregson's jaw dropping to hit his collar, and Lestrade's muttered oath of surprise, but my eyes were searching out the absolutely thunderstruck look adorning the Doctor's face – priceless applause to my vision.

That motionless two and one half seconds of distraction was all that it took for Hope to suddenly wrench free from my grip, knocking me backward against the table, and break for…the _window_??

"Here now!" Gregson bellowed. "No you don't, sir!"

I gained my footing again, only just in time to duck with my arm over my face as glass and splintered woodwork went stabbing in every direction (I moaned, for Mrs. Hudson was going to evict me, I just _knew_ she was!). I dived for the man's fast-disappearing shoulders while Lestrade and Gregson tackled the prisoner around the waist and knees, respectively, and among the three of us we hauled the roaring giant back into the room.

From the corner of my eye as I blocked a double-fisted blow from our prisoner I saw Lestrade go flying back against the wall (that had to hurt), and a moment later Gregson tripped over the portmanteau in the middle of the room and consequently was not able to fully block the hard kick Hope delivered him.

I dodged a meaty swipe at my head and tried to pinion the fellow's arms, only being shaken off like so many pesky insects for my pains. Gregson had made his feet and endeavoured to aid me in bringing the chap to the ground, but all Hope had to do was shake himself from side to side and we both were thrown off and clear against the wall.

Gregson landed with his elbow in my stomach (for which I may add a half-crown to his fee, the blundering idiot), and after I had gasped back a breath I saw to my astonishment that the Doctor had assisted the stunned Lestrade to his feet and was now proceeding to gamely join in the fray. Lestrade made a snatch for the fellow's wrists, trying to tighten the pressure of the handcuffs, and simultaneously the Doctor dove for the chap's legs in one of the finest flying tackles I have ever seen outside a rugby field.

Unfortunately, setting the smallest member and the weakest member of our party upon the brute did nothing to dampen his strength, and within split seconds Gregson and I were forced to jump the fellow from behind before he killed Lestrade with his bare hands – the Doctor had retained the sense to roll free before being trampled upon, after being shaken easily off by the man.

Gregson grabbed for the fellow's manacled hands and missed. Hope brought both clenched fists down upon the official's back, knocking him to the floor, and then turned in a blind fury to me, the mastermind of the entire affair. Not good – I recognised blood-lust when I saw it. And I saw it.

Even with his hands shackled together, the fellow was strong as an elephant and I was beginning to regret my theatrics. He flung me back against the table, sending breakfast china shattering everywhere with a series of tinkling crashes (ohh…Mrs. Hudson was not going to be happy at all!), and got both his enormous hands round my throat and proceeded to calmly choke the life out of me. _That hurts_…_cannot breathe_…

I drove my feet into Hope's stomach and he merely grunted, his deeply darkened face contorting as he glared malevolently at me for my unsuccessful efforts. His manacled hands tightened (where in blazes were those Scotland Yarders??) and I wheezed, only to suddenly feel the pressure suddenly release and see Hope staggering away a step or two, holding the side of his head.

I gaped dumbfounded at the Doctor, who had apparently clipped the fellow on the temple with the closest chair. Such a blow would have incapacitated many men, but this chap was a giant and it merely stunned him momentarily. Before I could shout a warning, Hope had come back round swinging straight at my companion's face.

I winced and cringed, expecting the painful worst, but to my surprise Watson ducked the sweeping blow, then again, and then deftly dodged the next set of fists, coming up underneath while the fellow was still off-balance and delivering a very well-placed right fist to the man's jaw with enough force that it resounded around the room.

I stared for a moment (that fellow is a sight stronger than he looks, and he also is considerably far more _dangerous_ than he appears – underestimation from the enemy seems to be his greatest advantage) as Hope staggered back and glared, unruffled by an attack that would have floored a normal man.

But I had no time to act upon anything other than to get my wits about me and duck alongside the Doctor as our prisoner grabbed the discarded chair and threw it. It sailed harmlessly over our heads, and while Hope was engaged off-balance I shifted my weight around and swept his legs out from under him with practised ease. The crash as he thudded awkwardly into the floor rattled the remaining china that yet lingered unbroken and sent the pictures on the wall shivering and rocking back and forth.

Lestrade and Gregson both pounced upon the fallen Hope, Gregson fairly throwing himself across the fellow's shoulders and Lestrade snatching at the fellow's collar with both hands. An instant later, after having nearly been choked into oblivion by the ferocious little Yarder, Hope finally stopped his struggling, gasping and his florid face turning even deeper crimson as his oxygen supply was effectively cut off.

"Holmes, here," Watson called to me, throwing me a towel he had snatched from the sideboard.

I caught it and hastily wrapped it tightly round the man's legs, whereupon Gregson promptly knelt upon it. Jefferson Hope finally ceased completely to struggle, looking quizzically from one to the other of us, and Lestrade slowly released the pressure upon his collar, eyeing him warily.

I began to breathlessly scramble upward, only to meet an outstretched hand which I accepted and allowed the Doctor to pull me back to my feet.

"Your throat all right?" he asked, inspecting it for bruises.

"Yes, quite," I waved him off impatiently. "I must say, you are quite the piece of work, Mr. Hope."

"Sorry 'bout that," the fellow growled affably. "Survival instinct, you know, makes a man a bit violent if need be. I trust I've not done any of you a great injury?"

Gregson was rubbing a certain portion of his anatomy (yes, he had sat down rather hard on that portmanteau, a mental picture which will give me great amusement for hours to come – and give the Yard even greater amusement when I inform that blathering sergeant on duty and let him take the matter from there) and giving a glare that could have curdled the remaining milk in the pitcher.

"Add resisting arrest to the other charges," he snapped at Lestrade.

"_You_ add it!" the little official retorted, still keeping one hand warily inside the fellow's collar.

"Oh, for heaven's sake…" I heard the Doctor mutter, and I grinned at him as if to say _welcome to the police world_.

"I suppose you'll be taking me to the station now?" Hope inquired, addressing me (much to the irritation of the two official policemen). "I shall be glad to walk, if you'll release my legs – I am not so light to lift as I used to be."

I could see that the man was fairly spent and no longer vicious, and so I loosened the towel I had bound round his ankles.

In performing this calm action I became the recipient of two very panicked glances from Lestrade and Gregson. Watson merely went for his revolver and held it on the man while I released him.

The precaution was unnecessary, for true to his word Hope was docile enough both going downstairs and in the ride to the station. Gregson and I led the prisoner to his own cab and put him inside, and Lestrade hopped up to the driver's seat, casting a jealous scowl toward his oblivious colleague.

Watson had remained in the hall for a moment an a desperate attempt to calm a very irate Mrs. Hudson and a moment later climbed up to sit beside me, giving me a look of utter woe before slumping back in the seat.

"How bad?" I whispered as Lestrade clucked his tongue at the horse and started the cab.

"Not bad, yet – I told her the little dog was still up there and so for her to not go into the room until I could dispose of the poor devil," he whispered back. "She doesn't know yet about the window."

I resisted the urge to moan aloud and instead turned my attention to our riding companions, who were both placid enough and said little on the drive. Once we had been safely ensconced in a bare and dismal interrogation room at Scotland Yard, the official Inspector performing the formalities boredly asked if Hope had anything to say before being taken to a cell.

"I've a good deal to say," the man replied slowly. "I would like all you gentlemen to hear it."

"Hadn't you better save that for your trial?" the man asked pointedly.

"I may never stand trial," Hope replied calmly. Lestrade and Gregson both started in alarm, but the man waved boredly at them. "You needn't look like that; it's not suicide I'm speaking of. You, sir, I believe you are a Doctor?" This last was directed at the man seated at my elbow.

"Yes, I am," he replied instantly.

"Then put your hand here, Doctor," Hope said with a strange smile, gesturing toward his chest with a clank of handcuffs.

My companion leant forward to do so, and I saw instant realisation flit across his face.

"What is it?" I asked.

He turned back to look at me and then the police in turn. "Aortic aneurism," he informed us quietly.

"So they say," Hope drawled calmly. "Been getting worse for years, and there's no fooling myself or anyone else, I've not much longer to go."

The Doctor nodded regretfully, casting a concerned glance at me as the police held a hasty conversation among themselves.

"Do you think there is immediate danger, Doctor?" the newer official asked.

"Most certainly there is," he declared emphatically. "He could have mere hours to live."

"Then we are clearly bound in the interests of justice to hear his story," the man said, with an agreeing nod from Gregson and Lestrade.

We sat there for another hour or two, listening to the fanciful and strange tale the man told us (I made a vow afresh to never plant myself into such a mess in the first place – this is a prime example of what distorted love can produce in the way of instigating heinous atrocities). I was a bit put-out, but could not be exactly resentful, when the man refused to tell who his accomplice had been who came for the ring in Baker Street. Perhaps someday I shall have the chance of meeting the young fellow and testing my mettle against his another day (with a very definitely different outcome, I vow that upon my best pipe).

The formalities having been completed at long last (the Yard is about as quick at performing these things as my brother is at sprinting), the Doctor and I parted company with the police and were soon in a hansom headed back home.

"You are rather silent, after such an onslaught of insatiable questions yesterday," I ventured after a few moments of silence.

He smiled. "Still trying to process it all, I suppose. I cannot believe the idea of the nose-bleed through strong emotional stress did not occur to me!"

I shrugged, pleased that he had already at least grasped the implication of some of my deductions. "By the by, you were an asset in that fracas, Doctor – nicely done."

He blushed slightly. "It felt…rather good," he replied with a grin, flexing his left fist in contemplation. "I do wish that I had the full use of both arms, but…"

"Eventually you shall," I agreed with the unfinished thought.

"I do hope, however, that you do not break a window _and_ half a tea service every time you catch one of your criminals in these cases of yours, though," he said mischievously after several minutes of comfortable quiet, during which we finally reached Baker Street and clopped to a stop in front of our house.

"Ohhhh…what are we going to _say_ to Mrs. Hudson?"

"_I_ am going to go bury the poor dog – I am certain _you_ will think of something," he shot over his shoulder with a grin, leaving me sitting in the cab open-mouthed in dismay (and having to pay the fare, too!) as he limped sturdily up the steps and let himself in with his key.

I swore under my breath and began to think as quickly as was possible under the circumstances while I tried to sneak up the stairs without being heard (I was completely unsuccessful – that woman has ears like a bat).

Mrs. Hudson was not at all happy…I believe the apposite word is _livid_. The glazier is coming this morning to replace the window (thank heaven it did not rain last night, or else I should be paying to replace the carpeting as well!), I have raised my eviction threats to _le total de quatre_, and I must begin begging Providence for a few gratuitous cases before the rent comes due at the end of the month with all the extra surcharges.

Actually, she was somewhat calmer than I had expected her to be. Which is somewhere in the wide area spanning homicidal and hysterical.

The Doctor is helping out that chap over in Paddington all day today, and so I probably shan't be able to discuss the finer details of the case with him until tonight as I must leave in a few moments myself.

I shall just go scribble him a memorandum to explain the note regarding Hope's death and leave it stuck to the breakfast table. More on this case tonight.

* * *

_To be concluded._

_And I wish a very Happy Birthday to **Pompey**!_


	53. March 6, 1881 II

_March 6, 1881_

_5:57 p.m._

Chaos had come again to the Scotland Yard (which is a more frequent occurrence than any casual supporter of the forces of law and disorder would realise) by the time I reached it this morning. Evidently the sergeant on duty had been warned against allowing me access to the office area, for it took all of fifteen minutes and a good deal of persuasive threatening to get me past him in order to see Gregson.

Did the lazy old grizzly in the Zoological Gardens possess the temper that Inspector employed upon seeing me, the keepers would be able to _charge_ people to enter the Gardens to view the animal. It was all I could do to extract my fee from Gregson (only five minutes and one more snide remark away from simply picking his pocket, to be exact), so incensed was he over the press conference from which he and his rat-faced counterpart had just emerged.

It was with a breath of deep relief that I left the harsh atmosphere of the Yard for the warm, fetid air of spring London – airborne toxins were certainly much preferable to choking on the jealousy dripping about that place.

I spent the day doing miscellaneous and trivial errands that had lain undone for the last two days thanks to this interesting little case, and then I decided to stop by Whitehall during the course of my brother's lunch hour (though with his appetite he really should have been allotted three or four), to forestall a summons certain to arrive when he saw my name in the papers connected to the Jefferson Hope case.

He was quite displeased – one, to see me at all; two, that my boisterous entrance caused his secretary no amount of dismay; and three, that he dropped a portion of his sandwich upon the floor when I startled him (a trio of annoyances, no doubt, but the latter obviously the chiefest of those three).

I flourished the _Echo_ in his face with a grimace, and he pushed my hand away impatiently.

"I have no time for trivialities, Sherlock. If you are wanting an advance from me to cover some unforeseen expense you must take your mendicating elsewhere," he growled, going back to his eating.

"I am anticipating your telegram this time, brother mine; no doubt you would have sent one once you saw this," I retorted, stabbing the article in question with the small wooden pick that had held his (enormous and fast-disappearing) sandwich together.

"What is it then?" he sighed, glaring at me over a mound of meat and pickle.

"My latest case – typically distorted and inaccurately portrayed in the press as always," I snorted, indicating the paper.

"The Brixton Road murder?"

"Yes, quite. Criminal died this morning, unfortunately for the two glory-hounds who were hoping to gain a promotion from the publicity of the trial," I replied with undisguised glee.

"Oh?" My brother fastidiously cleaned his fingers with an oversized napkin and leant over to cursorily scan the paper with the practiced eye of a man who does nothing but paperwork all day _every_ day. What a horrible and mundane occupation (and to think that he offered a similar job to me and had the stupidity to believe I would jump at the chance!).

"Apprehended in your house?" he asked suddenly, cocking a questioning eyebrow at me.

I nodded with a (well-deservedly) self-satisfied air, leaning back in my chair and stretching my legs out in front of me after plucking an errant slice of pickle from his nearly empty plate.

"I cannot imagine your esteemed landlady being too enthusiastic about that, though judging from the weight you have gained she does not appear to be venting her frustrations upon your meals at least."

I scowled, for no one could ruin a perfect smug complacency with such alacrity as my brother could. I snatched the newspaper from under his nose and rose to depart. "I was merely informing you that, unfortunately for your finances, I am still in the land of the living, Mycroft. Not that my death would alter your habits in the slightest," I growled, folding the paper and shoving it into my coat pocket.

"Alter my habits, no," he replied pensively. "Though it would most certainly be a dreadful bother, having to deal with the formalities; most awkward that I should have to divert my attention from Africa and the East at the moment."

"My dear elder brother, you of all people should not show so much open sentiment; it is quite unbecoming to a man of your status."

A small chuckle rippled through his massive frame as he waved me toward the door. "Regardless of the aforementioned inconveniences, that does not mean I want you getting yourself shot any time in the near future, brother."

"I shall do my best to oblige you, then," I said airily, waving off the flurrying secretary who was hovering annoyingly round me to show me out.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," my brother chuckled. "Give my regards to your friend the Doctor."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," I retorted with a shudder, abhorring the very idea of discussing my family with an outsider; besides, surely he thought that one of us were strange enough as it was.

I still have absolutely no idea why Mycroft's bulbous face morphed itself into an enormous smirk as I left – what had I said or done out of the ordinary?

_Brothers_. Honestly.

I scowled and barked a curt order for a cab, thanking whatever Deity may control my circumstances that I only had _one_ sibling.

After ten minutes of aimless soliloquizing, going over the case and scanning the accounts in the papers, I began to realise that my rumination would be considerably more illuminating if I were to converse with someone intelligent (other than myself, that is); and as it was mid-afternoon I told the cabbie to turn toward Paddington. Perhaps the Doctor would be finished by now, he was scheduled until 3:00 by his appointment-book.

I knew this not through any feat of deduction or any great interest in his affairs, of course; he left the book upon my desk. Items left on my desk apportion me the inherent territorial right to inspect said items to my satisfaction.

It was nearly three when the cab pulled up outside the modest office and I descended. The waiting-room appeared deserted (thank goodness, for I do despise having to make aimless conversation and especially with hypochondriacal people who enjoy detailing the intimate personal details of their various life-threatening illnesses to unsuspecting trapped listeners), and I lounged idly against the wall, attempting to occupy my mind by theorizing about the patients who had recently left their traces in the room.

Once I had exhausted that avenue of mental distraction, I was about to pick up an old and outdated copy of the _Lancet_ from the nearby table but thought better of it, distractedly wondering if physicians ever considered just how many germs and pathogens could linger on the material handled by ill patients in their waiting-rooms.

Repulsive thought.

I was not kept waiting long, for not ten minutes later the little Acheson fellow scuttled out from the back, showing out a young man whose medical complaint was quite obviously red, inflamed eyes and a puffy face. I shrank back well out of harm's (and infection's) way as the chap exited, and I then nodded to the physician. He bobbed his head in greeting and then bellowed back into the consulting-room with a force that made the table shiver on its legs, informing Watson that I was waiting for him.

It only a few minutes later occurred to me to wonder how the man remembered me (we met for a total of five seconds in Baker Street); either he has an extraordinary memory for faces and names or else my fellow-lodger talks about me, which idea I do not much care for.

Said fellow-lodger was rather surprised to see me, but his face lit up as he poked his head round the door while drying off his hands with a towel.

"Why are you here, Holmes?" he asked with a curious look.

"Bored," I replied succinctly.

"Already?" He disappeared for a moment and then reappeared, sans towel and buttoning his frock-coat.

"Quite. Scotland Yard expelled me into the street after I bled Gregson for my fee, and I've been performing mundane errands all morning. I purchased another bottle of ink and had it sent back to Baker Street; didn't you need some as well as I? The papers carry a decently exaggerated account of the affair; have you seen them? Did you eat luncheon?"

He blinked twice at me as he flipped his collar straight and shook out the tails of his coat, wincing at the motion of his bad shoulder. "Yes, I needed ink, and so thank you. No, I've not seen the papers; and no, I did not eat and am in consequence quite famished. Why?"

"Because I don't fancy facing Mrs. Hudson again just yet about the broken tea service, do you?"

He laughed and disappeared from sight once more, emerging with his hat, stick, and bag, and calling a good-bye over his shoulder to his colleague. He followed me out the door and down the pavement for a moment before speaking.

"If you're wanting to go out for luncheon, I wouldn't mind – but I need to change out of this suit first; it smells of iodoform," he said, pulling a face.

"So I noticed," I replied dryly.

"I dropped the bottle," he muttered in some embarrassment. "Blasted shoulder…the strain of yesterday, my arm is not as steady as it should be." His face grew pensive and distressed, and it took no mental leap of deduction to perceive from his features and expressions, together with his glances down at his black bag, that he was wondering if he would ever be able to be a competent surgeon again.

I artfully turned the conversation into a less uncomfortable direction. "I've all the newspaper accounts of the case, if you want to see them over luncheon."

"Splendid! And I've been thinking about it all morning – I've a few questions for you if you don't mind," he replied eagerly.

"Not in the least," I answered, more than happy to have pre-planned dinner conversation already in the workings; this eliminated the necessity of my scrambling to cogitate small talk.

"Mrs. Hudson was much calmed when she brought my breakfast up this morning," he informed me after a moment's pause, grinning at my wary glance.

"Much calmed as in _no longer furious_, or much calmed as in _not going to burn the toast on purpose_?"

"She burnt your toast?" he inquired in amused incredulity.

I scowled without answering him and consequently set him off into a peal of laughter at my expense. "Surely not purposely," he protested at last.

"I've no idea and would rather not push my luck by mentioning the fact," I grumbled, glancing up the road as we turned onto Baker Street.

"Well, if you think she is still angry with you…wait." He tugged on my arm, gesturing to a vendor puttering along the side of the road, hopefully accosting passers-by with his wares.

"What?"

"Flowers," he pointed out pithily. "Ladies like flowers."

"Erm…I shall take your word on the matter." I twitched in some discomfort.

"They go quite a long way toward placating an angry woman," he informed me further, shrugging with his good shoulder at my aversion.

"I am _not_ about to walk down Baker Street carrying a bundle of blossoming spring weeds!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake. I shall carry them, then," he said with a tolerant sigh. "But I for one harbour no wish to become the recipient of burnt toast by guilty association with the world's only private consulting detective."

I spluttered for a moment as he fished in his pocket for the appropriate change, and then he traded the coin for a bunch of disgustingly sweet-smelling blooms. I had and still have no idea what they were, though he apparently knew (why does that not surprise me?).

Upon our returning to the flat, however, I was forced to concede to his superiour experience with the weaker sex; for he took advantage of our arrival in the hall to mash the things into my hand just as Mrs. Hudson emerged from her rooms to greet us. Our venerable landlady appeared far more calm than she had been last night but still eyed me with some (well-deserved, I admit it) wariness.

I somehow received a small shove and found myself pushing the bunch of plants at the woman with some inane and vaguely apologetic explanation, along with an encouraging glance delivered from the Doctor who was already on his way up the stairs. He threw me the most smug leering smile that I have seen yet from him before vanishing in the dimly-lit hall and leaving me to face the tigress without even a rifle with which to defend myself.

However the woman, to my abject shock, blushed and accepted the weeds, thanking me for them in a tone out of which I could detect absolutely no animosity whatsoever. Apparently the Doctor is correct (unfortunately, he appears to be so rather more often than I would prefer in certain matters), and there really _is_ some bizarre quality about spring flowers that makes the female of the species less antagonistic toward the well-meaning male.

A strange enigma, and one to which I have no desire whatsoever to attempt the discovery of a solution.

I extricated myself from my predicament as soon as I politely could and then bolted up the steps to the sitting room. The broken window had been replaced whilst I was out annoying my brother and the Yard, and save for a bit of chipping along the wall (from airborne pieces of shattered china) no traces remained of our little escapade of yesterday. I bundled the afternoon papers together to take with us to our early dinner, and a moment later the Doctor pattered down the steps as quickly as he could with that bad leg and we were off, after the customary motherly admonishing from Mrs. Hudson to "bundle up because it looked like rain."

I did not think it prudent (or safe) to remind her that this was _London_, and it _always_ looked as if it were going to rain, save for the few times when it looked as if it were going to snow.

We discussed the case at length over dinner, in such detail and interest that the constant flapping of newspapers and the flipping pages of the Doctor's notebook (in which I was completely dumbfounded to note that he had carefully and painstakingly written down every single one of my deductions verbatim) kept drawing the annoyed attention of a very fat, very bald old fellow sitting at the next table.

"Did you take notes over the entire affair?" I asked incredulously, lifting one of the pages of his notebook with my unused salad fork.

"Of course," he replied, puzzled. "Very thorough ones, too."

_Note to self: Given that his handwriting is considerably more legible than mine and his note-taking considerably less haphazard, perhaps I should acquire a copy of his notes instead of attempting to reproduce my own scrawl for my files._

"But this is a complete fabrication!" my companion exclaimed with some heat, casting down the _Echo_ onto the table. I carefully picked a corner of soggy newsprint out of my soup-plate as he continued, completely oblivious. "Those two police detectives had nothing whatever to do with Jefferson Hope's capture, and this account gives them the credit for the entire affair!"

"I distinctly remember prophesying that exact eventuality, Doctor, if you will recall," I pointed out dryly.

"But this is ludicrous!"

"This is _reality_," I retorted bitterly.

Our bald neighbour shot us both a disapproving glare as our voices rose. I merely scowled back at him while my companion flushed in embarrassment, hastily turning his face back to the papers.

But it was too pleasant an evening to remain irritated for long, either with the world in general or with specific individuals like Lestrade and Gregson. The instruction gained from the simple little affair was more than ample reward for the work (though the acclaim would have been a welcome addition, I will not deny). I said as much to the Doctor, and he stopped with a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth to stare at me incredulously.

"Simple!" he exclaimed.

"Well it could hardly be described as anything but, since within three days – more like two, actually – I was able to lay my hands upon the murderer," I pointed out, reaching for another breadstick.

"It usually does not take that long, then, for you to do so?"

"Oh, heavens no. The more difficult of cases may extend over a week or possibly two, but the majority of crimes can be solved by a competent investigator in no more than forty-eight hours," I contemplated, absently tapping my plate with the breadstick and watching with curiousity as he scribbled down my words verbatim.

"It was merely a matter of reasoning backwards," I went on, watching carefully to see if he followed my train of logic. "In this day, there are fifty men in the world who can reason synthetically for every one that can reason analytically."

My companion set down his spoon in a gesture of complete absorption, frowning in obvious deliberation. Finally he looked interestedly at me. "I must confess to finding myself in that group of fifty, then, for I am afraid I don't quite follow you," he admitted quizzically.

"Let me see if I can make it clearer to you…many people, if you were to tell them the steps of a process, could tell you in return what the end result of said process would be. However, there are few people who, if given only the result, are able to successfully deduce what the steps would be to produce said result," I explained.

His eyes suddenly illuminated with the connection of logic. "Similar to performing an autopsy: diagnosing what killed the man and why when one is presented only with the body and no other details?"

"Precisely," I agreed appreciatively, for he had with his usual quickness grasped the concept remarkably well.

"All mysteries and cases brought to me are of that type, Doctor," I continued. "I am presented with the end result – a body found, a house burgled, a paper stolen, a man missing – and I am required to find out everything else for myself."

"Which you did quite beautifully, but I am still at a loss to explain some of your reasoning processes," he interjected, scribbling furiously in that ever-present notebook, his soup completely forgotten at his elbow.

I leant back in my chair and began an attempt at putting into logical sequential sentences the thoughts and deductions that had so rapidly flitted through my mind during the course of the case, occasionally augmented by a pertinent question from his evidently flawless notes. Thinking and knowing certain facts is one thing; voicing them in a convincing manner to a second party is quite another. Every child knows that two and two make four, but if asked to explain why that fact is indeed fact most adults would be completely at a loss to so elucidate.

But I managed the feat somehow, and the conversation ended with my companion's hand cramping as he scribbled too quickly and in my laughing at his absolute and unmitigated enthusiasm. This fellow does not bestow praise or respect lightly, and upon very few people as I have observed – 'tis something of an honour to have such wholehearted and obviously sincere admiration for my methods; quite a pleasant change from the indifference or the criticism (or typically a combination of both) I am so accustomed to receiving for my pains in this profession.

"But this is wonderful!" cried he as he put away his notebook with a last admiring glance. "Your merits should be publicly recognised, not those of the fellows in the official force!"

I shrugged, endeavouring to prohibit myself from showing visibly the keen pleasure the honest praise had given me.

"You should publish an account of the case," he went on earnestly as I returned my attention to my now-tepid soup.

"Pshaw," I muttered uncomfortably, fidgeting slightly in my chair. No, I had not the patience to write up a case in its entirety; monographs were one matter but long cases were quite another entirely. For another, I doubted that enough of the literate populace would care enough about the thing to purchase a lecture on criminology, brilliant though it would be, to justify the time and effort and money involved.

"And if you won't, I shall do it for you," the Doctor announced calmly, going back to his soup with renewed vigour.

I nearly choked on my spoon (earning me another disapproving look from the cranky dotard at the next table), but apparently the man was entirely serious. Those sharp eyes glanced quizzically over me as I finally succeeded in clearing my windpipe of split-pea, no doubt completely unaware of why my reaction had been quite so surprised.

"What? You deserve to be recognised, and if you do not have enough of a care for your getting the acclaim you deserve then someone else shall have to care enough to do it for you," he stated calmly, spooning up the last of his soup.

Why the devil would he want to publicise one of my cases? I am of course aware that the man enjoys writing, but wanting to publish a case is more than a bit bizarre. He has some ulteriour motive and I cannot for the life of me fathom what that motivation might be. No doubt the novelty of defeating our common enemy of monotony has something to do with the idea, but still it is rather an extreme reaction to a very inconsequential affair.

"Erm…you may do just as you like, Doctor," I managed to mutter at last, bending my head low over my soup plate to avoid having him see that my face was turning red – it was so infernally hot in this café; I must remember to never again go there on a warm afternoon for I felt half-stifled.

"Then I shall," he declared emphatically, draining the contents of his water glass with energy. "And I've a good mind to go right down to Scotland Yard and set those two blundering idiots straight on whatever this tripe is they fed to the press-hounds!"

He plunked down the glass to punctuate the finality of this sentiment with a visual period, and I felt my mouth widen in a grin despite myself. He really is quite entertaining in those rare bursts of righteous anger, which flare up like flash powder to blind the one at whom the ire is directed but remain harmless to those standing by watching the pyrotechnics.

"Let the Inspectors have their moment of glory, Doctor – heaven knows they need all the testimonials they can get," I said, smiling at his zeal.

"Hmph," he snorted, moving his empty soup plate to the side. A white-coated waiter suddenly materialized to take the item and then promptly melted away again, and my companion was left with only the newspaper.

"And someday when Europe recognises you for the genius you are, then they will be left with nothing _but_ that testimonial," he added darkly, flipping the paper open to the sporting page and further leaving me staring at him in surprise…and also leaving me actually _smiling_ (even more surprising).

The headline of the entertainment section caught my eye as he shuffled over to the financial page – apparently _Les contes d'Hoffmann_ is being performed at Covent Garden next weekend. I have been wanting to see that anyhow, for I heard from Le Villard (insufferable scoundrel; I do wish he would desist from sending me correspondence that is fit for nothing more useful than starting the fire of a morning) that its premiere in Paris last month was stunningly superb.

I wonder if Watson enjoys opera as much as he does Shakespeare?

* * *

_And so it ends...or does it begin?_

_Thank you very much for reading!_


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